


Sherlock Holmes, undercover lover

by fellshish



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Coming In Pants, Eventual Smut, Face Slapping, Fave character: the perineum, Friends to Lovers, It's For a Case, Jealous John, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mentions of the word ‘penis’, POV John Watson, Pining, Post-Reichenbach, Reality TV, Sharing a Bed, Tipsy sexual acts, Virgin Sherlock, angsty sex, john 'captain of denial' watson, pavlov’s boner, switchlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-04-05 02:50:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 51,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14034525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellshish/pseuds/fellshish
Summary: When the celebrity bachelor on a dating show begins receiving death threats, Sherlock goes undercover as a contestant to try and solve the puzzle before it's too late. Problem: he doesn't know how to seduce people. Who better than John 'three continents' Watson to provide seduction tips? It's not gay if you're helping out a friend.





	1. Even artichokes have hearts

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own these characters. If anything, these characters own me.
> 
> This is a finished fic. If you have any questions (about the tags, or other things), feel free to message me on [Tumblr](http://fellshish.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Without my incredible beta [88thparallel](https://88thparallel.tumblr.com/), I would be nothing. I can barely write the word 'parallel'. Endless thanks to her <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys are shopping at Tesco when suddenly, Sherlock asks an odd question.

“John? How do you seduce people?”

John's fingers freeze for a fraction of a second around the artichoke he's been weighing in the palm of his hand. They're in the middle of a brightly-lit Tesco, John is mentally cooking their evening meal while trying to keep Sherlock away from the sweets aisle, and he's not prepared for curveballs in the middle of the produce section. Carefully, he lowers the artichoke in a see-through bag.

“Sherlock. We're in the middle of grocery shopping.”

Quickly, John checks that there aren't too many people around to overhear this odd conversation. Or perhaps that's the point – and there's someone nearby who prompted the question? Someone... attractive?

John frowns. Sherlock hasn't ever expressed any interest in bodies that don't have rigor mortis, and prefers the smell of decay over perfume. There _were_ times when John wondered whether there was a tenderness underneath that cold mask, but that seems like ages ago.

“Yes, it's infinitely boring,” Sherlock says. “Entertain me. How does John Watson convince people to play doctor?”

Sherlock's knuckles are blanched as he grips four water bottles close to his chest. He's refusing to put them in the shopping cart, again. John glares at him. Somehow it irks him when Sherlock tries his best – helps to carry stuff, holds a door open, accompanies him to the store. He didn't use to do that. But ever since he returned about six months ago, after more than two years of pretending to be dead, he's been almost _nice_. And John hates it. As if such a betrayal can be soothed by carrying grocery bags.

John rips the water bottles from Sherlock's hands and dumps them into the cart.

“A little hint from Doctor Watson to Sherlock Holmes on how to seduce someone,” he breathes through his teeth. “Don't. Be. Yourself.”

For a brief second, Sherlock looks at the bottles sadly. Then he positions himself behind the shopping cart and pushes it, stubbornly. His Belstaff flutters open dramatically. John sighs. He looks completely ridiculous. Who goes to Tesco in such a tight, insanely expensive designer suit?

At the registry, John tries to haul the groceries onto the conveyor belt extra fast, before Sherlock can help him. As if to punish him. John knows it's an insane type of race, an absurd competition, but he can't stop himself. They're both aware it's happening. Sherlock flinches with every item that touches down hard. Breathe, John thinks. He slows down. Grants Sherlock the last item, toilet paper, to lift.

John finds his bank card and smiles at the cashier.

“So I guess _smiling_ is on the list,” Sherlock says, suddenly uncomfortably close to his ear.

“What?” John's heart skips a beat while he holds eye contact with the cashier, a nice young woman with soft, black hair. As unperturbed as possible he tries to glide his bank card into her slot. _The_ slot! _The slot._

“You smile as a means of flirting,” Sherlock says, his voice in rapid deductive mode. “We come here twice a week, and usually, you choose this particular till. Is this averagely attractive young lady any faster than the others? Oh please. Even _I_ could probably devise a more efficient method of checking out myself. In fact, I have, and it would save us 34,6 seconds on each visit, which amounts to 3,598.4 seconds each year, or approximately one hour. Each year, John, can you imagine what one could accomplish with that kind of time saving? But no, you choose the fourth slowest of all cashiers in this Tesco, that is, assuming the large freckled redhead has been fired since we haven't seen her for three weeks, and why? It's clear. You fancy this one. You smile at her. You once lied that you forgot your Clubcard so she'd have to talk to you longer. You don't have to explain to me about your method of seduction. I'll just use my method of deduction.”

The machine beeps. John curses softly. Wrong pin number.

John turns toward Sherlock, glaring. He’s still standing uncomfortably close, but the stream of cruel comments has stopped. That's a sign of self-control, John reckons, because Sherlock must be absorbing about a hundred details right now: the hitching of breath, the flustered laugh of the lady, and the light red discoloration in his neck. John can imagine it all too well. A complete arse, he is.

John wants to go pack the groceries, but he notices that he's apparently holding the front of Sherlock's shirt in a tight, angry fist. When did he grab it? He sighs, and pulls his fingers away. Sherlock's shoulders relax a little.

“Have a nice day”, the cashier says. She's actually quite cute, and Sherlock was right, John _had_ noticed that. But that's hardly the point, is it?

From now on they will have to use the self check-out.

Find a different store, definitely.

Or no, better still: Sherlock is no longer allowed to accompany him, anywhere.

John frowns. Unless that was Sherlock’s goal? Maybe he didn't deign to admit he wanted to quit these trips. Obviously Sherlock loathes grocery shopping, so he thought of a lewd strategy to make John yell at him in public. Then John would be the bad guy, and solve his problem for him, and Sherlock wouldn’t technically be a quitter.

 _Completely_ childish.

John grabs the three plastic bags before Sherlock can get to them, and stomps out of the store, onto the street. The heavy bags pull on his shoulder, like toddlers craving attention. Two steps behind him, Sherlock follows. Trying to catch up.

“John, I may have overstepped.”

John treads even faster as he turns the corner of Melcombe street, right into Baker Street. The bags slam into his shins. He hopes he’s not bruising the artichoke.

“But I really need your expertise,” Sherlock adds, trying to make eye contact. John grumbles and looks straight ahead as cars speed by.

“Even though, one could argue that you're not an expert,” Sherlock says, very much not helping his case, “given that it's been a while since you have, colloquially said, _pulled_ anyone _._ ”

John almost drops the bags at 221B's front door. He grabs his keys.

Sherlock quickly pulls a wrinkled piece of paper from his coat's pocket.

“You see, it's for a case,” he says. “This note might explain it better than I have.”

And he holds the paper in front of John. He can't look away. Just when his key slides into the right hole, finally, something clicks. He stills.

On the paper, two neatly scribbled sentences:

 

_I will seduce him. Then kill him._

 

John blinks wildly. Someone wants to seduce Sherlock?

“Someone wants to kill you?” John asks.

***

The three shopping bags are left at the door while John walks up and down the living room. Sherlock is crouched in his chair, hands folded, fingertips nearly touching.

“It's very straightforward, John. A man is being threatened. He's about to be the subject of interest on a televised dating show. The showrunners got a threatening note and they asked me, Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, to look into it.”

“Lestrade passed you the case, didn't he?”

“They _need_ me. We've agreed the best way to find out who sent the threatening note is if I go undercover on the show. As one of the suitors.”

John stops in his tracks and turns on his heels. Silence falls. Nobody breathes. Sherlock refuses to look up.

“It's a...” John hesitates. Gay show? Is that derogatory or descriptive? “Same-sex dating show?”

“It's more than that, John.” Sherlock stretches his knees now. He's all legs and arms. “Our would-be victim is not just any around-the-corner gay bachelor. He's a celebrity doctor, a famous surgeon, apparently, named Jonathan Wilson.”

John has heard that name. Well, who hasn't? He's been on a reality medical show called 'Top Doctors' for several seasons now, and his face has graced many magazines outside of the realm of medical journals. He might even have been in a toothpaste commercial, now that John thinks about it. Jonathan Wilson is about forty-ish, very intelligent, and very, very attractive.

John stares at Sherlock.

“So you're going to seduce...”

John's brain short circuits. _A man. A man._

“... this Jonathan Wilson. On television. For a case.”

“Don't be absurd, John.” Sherlock scoffs. “I'll have found the killer by the first commercial break.”

John tries to grip the side of the table less intensely.

“I will solve the case on air”, Sherlock says, “I will have the murderer arrested, and leave the show. It'll be good for ratings.”

“But bad for your reputation.”

Sherlock's head snaps up. “How so?”

The doorbell rings, once, twice, and by the third ring it starts to feel like a very angry client. Sherlock doesn't move, but holds John's gaze. John would be all too happy to go answer the door, but he seems cemented to the floor. Downstairs, Mrs Hudson lets the guest inside. Cheerful noises. Footsteps on the stairway. Neither John nor Sherlock breaks eye contact.

Not until the door swings open, and a loud voice booms.

“You can't just steal the bloody evidence.” Lestrade barges inside.

With an indifferent nod in the direction of the kitchen table, Sherlock directs him to the threatening note. Lestrade grabs it and puts it inside a see-through bag.

“You're lucky it was me who realised it was missing, not Anderson,” Lestrade says.

“Anderson wouldn't recognise evidence if it was hitting him in the face with a shovel,” Sherlock says. “Though I'd like to test that hypothesis.”

“So,” John says, swallowing. “Jonathan Wilson.”

“Yes, lovely bloke, you should meet him,” Lestrade says. He scratches the back of his head.

“Does he know he's being threatened?” John asks.

“No”, Lestrade says. “The production team wants to keep his reactions... genuine.”

“Good”, Sherlock says.

“Good?” John folds his arms behind his back. “Sherlock. That man's life is in danger. He deserves to know.”

Sherlock waves a hand dismissively. “It'll only upset him.”

“You're going along with this, Lestrade?” John says. “This... madness?”

“Most likely it's an empty threat,” Lestrade says. He clears his throat. “But yes. According to Sherlock, this can go three ways. Possibly it's an empty threat, a prank of sorts. _Or_ one of the suitors or crew is genuinely after Wilson's life, in which case we need Wilson to act naturally or else we give away our game of being onto the killer. Or, third option, Wilson himself wrote the note.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Finally, you're asking the right questions,” Sherlock interrupts. “I have looked into this Jonathan Wilson and he seems to be a decent man. Heart surgeon, so he's busy. Never married, clean records, rather goodlooking. A real catch. So why would he go on a television dating show?”

John shrugs. He's never heard Sherlock call anyone 'a real catch' before. Not even a bloody fish.

“Not the money, he's a surgeon, remember,” Sherlock says. “No gambling debts, no family members in trouble, he's entirely clean. So. Perhaps they somehow tricked him into this, made him sign a contract, and now he's trying to get out of it. There's nothing quite like death threats to get out of something tedious.”

Sherlock shuts up at once, sucks in his breath.

“This is ridiculous.” John shakes his head, looking at Lestrade for backup. “Why wouldn't he suspect he's being investigated? Or that _something_ is being investigated, at least? Sherlock's a detective, for Christ's sake. And it's not like he can hide it.”

Lestrade looks at his knuckles. “Well. Even a detective must look for love sometimes.”

Sherlock looks unmoved, and rather clueless.

“They don't know he's a sociopath,” Lestrade adds.

Sherlock puts on his blue dressing gown and lies down on the sofa.

“I don't like this. Not one bit, Lestrade. And if something happens...” John trails off.

He's remembering the days before Sherlock jumped off St Bart's. How the media turned against him. The many headlines after. The repeated phone calls of journalists, calling him from different phones if he blocked their numbers. They harassed him near the cemetery. At the bakery. At Speedy's. And after Sherlock came back, it got worse somehow. Long opinion pieces were written about whether John Watson was right in forgiving his so-called friend. As if it were up for public debate, to be battled in likes and shares. Angry smiley if you vote no. Fuck off.

John swallows heavily.

“I don't think he should draw that much attention to himself again,” he says.

“Oh, come off it, John,” Sherlock snarls, eyes closed. “Don't worry about your little _reputation_. The whole case will be solved before the theme song hits the screen. And we've been very low on clients, especially since you refuse to update your blog anymore. This could be good for business.”

It's a low jab. After Sherlock's death, John had to disable the comment section. Now he can't even bring himself to load the blog anymore, not even to delete the evidence of his grief. It's not as if he has much to say, anyway. And who even blogs anymore? He should probably just snapchat his 221B life. Put a flower crown on that deerstalker.

John shakes his head.

“Anyway, now that I have retrieved that piece of evidence, you might be interested in _this_ ,” Lestrade holds up a memory stick. “It contains footage of your future boyfriend, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sits up at once and raises his eyebrows. John grins uneasily and collects his laptop.  

“The production company, HeartBeat Films, sent me this teaser trailer they'd released a few weeks ago, to find contestants. I mean, _suitors_ ,” Lestrade says, as he clicks the video file.

A man's face fills the screen. He has brown hair with a loose strand falling on his forehead, and a nicely squared jaw, yet with a soft streak to it. “I'm just a heart surgeon”, Jonathan Wilson says, as his name and profession appear in dramatic, golden handwriting on the screen. “Looking for a good heart.”

Cue dramatic music – _My Heart Will Go On_ , just to drive home the gay – and several shots of Wilson rushing to the ER, walking around his beautiful home and – lord – even _horseback riding_ . At the end of the video, a female voice appeals to any viewers to go to the show's website to enlist for this special dating show. The title, apparently, will be 'Wilson Needs A Heart'. John chuckles. The tagline – ' _There's no 'i' in Love_ ' – is even more sappy. Céline Dion tries her best, but really, this show is most likely a sinking ship.

John rolls his eyes, and glances at Sherlock. His breath hitches. Sherlock's back is straight as a rod, he has his hands folded in his lap, his face open. He's absorbing every word.

 

***  
  
That very night, lying in his bed, John goes through his usual routine: staring at his ceiling and realising he's been a right idiot. Something soft had fallen in Sherlock's features earlier, when he watched that Jonathan Wilson clip. Maybe there was more that lured him to this case than just another mystery, another puzzle. It's been awhile since Sherlock even took a real case. And that question in the middle of the supermarket – suddenly it seems so obvious. He wasn't asking about it in an odd place because he's simply Sherlock, detective incapable of detecting social awkwardness – no. He was attempting to hide his vulnerability, the bare truth of the question. He chose somewhere public so the conversation would never have a real chance of taking off.

John sits up and shoves his feet into his slippers.

Downstairs, draped in partial darkness, he finds Sherlock, still in his dressing gown and seated on his single chair. A sad trace of smoke leaves the hearth. The fire is out. Only a small nod of his head betrays that Sherlock has noticed John, that he hasn't retreated into his mind palace too deeply.

John quietly makes tea for the both of them, and then sits down. With long fingers Sherlock envelopes his cup. In front of him, John bares his feet to gingerly explore the soft threading of the rug between his toes.

“The trick to … getting someone to _like_ you, is really just listening,” John says.

Sherlock slightly lifts his chin in surprise. In the darkness, his eyes are hidden, his face a blurry grey, but John imagines it's charmingly confused, and he's interested, even if he tries to hide it well.

“I know that sounds like a cliché,” John continues, “but hear me out. People love to talk about themselves. They love it when someone listens. _Really_ listens. It doesn't happen too often, in real life.”

John pauses. Sherlock sits perfectly still, as if making a move will break the spell.

“So ask about who he is and what he thinks, deepen the conversation, and answer any questions he might have in return. As honestly as you can. Relationships are about intimacy, even more than they are about seeking thrill or adventure. Those things will happen naturally, to people who spend time with you. But once you really let them in... show them who you are... They won't want to leave.”

The moon passes by the window – or rather, a cloud stops hindering its light – and for a second John feels as if he’s sitting in a spotlight. He looks down at his steaming cup.

“Also, compliments are important. And light touches, just to test if he's open to that. Try a small touch to his arm while laughing, for example. And eye contact. Also very important. When, you know. You're. Flirting.”

Sherlock hasn't touched his tea. He looks like he wants to say something, but John stops him.

“The thing is, there is no real trick to seduction. You either click with someone, or you don't. The flirting will come naturally if you do. Smiles, compliments, and kindness help, though.”

He smiles reassuringly, but the moon is shaded again, and the darkness is a hot and heavy blanket. John puts his feet back into his slippers, and ascends the stairs, shedding its weight. During the night, time seems to be shaped differently, and it's as if the world is inside out.

John would often wake from a nightmare and keep living a waking terror that only faded with the morning light. Quite like that feeling, John awakes after their nighttime conversation, feeling as if it never really took place, as if it happened inside the sea, and the words are muffled faraway sounds now, as the morning washes him ashore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is a reference to the amazing French movie 'Le Fabuleux Destin d'Amélie Poulain'. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. I'd love to hear what you think <3


	2. You’re not asking, but I’m trying to grow a mustache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is about to meet gay bachelor Jonathan Wilson as an undercover contestant. And John is alarmed: did Sherlock... actually dress up for the occasion?

“Are you... are your eyelashes  _ tinted _ ?” John is staring at Sherlock. He closes his mouth before more words can escape. 

John should be concentrating on the four tiny monitors in front of them, which show a livestream from four different cameras. Soon, all candidates for the show ‘Wilson Needs A Heart’ will appear on them, in differently angled shades of awkwardness. 

The production team is barely trying to hide that it’s ripping off ‘The Bachelor’: the candidates are set to arrive in limousines to introduce themselves one by one to the hot heart surgeon Jonathan Wilson. After that, there will be a first rose ceremony. An elimination round, where two suitors will be sent home. Or to jail, in case of the wannabe murderer. If everything goes well. (And of course, Sherlock will go back to Baker Street then, too, John reminds himself.)

Except this is a British production on a tighter budget than an American one - they can barely afford to rent paintings - so there are only two limos, which ride around the block after dropping off one candidate to pick up the next, creating the illusion of a steady stream of luxury vehicles. 

“Let's focus on matters of importance,” Sherlock says. 

The tip of Sherlock’s tongue lightly grazes the outside of his lips as he stares at the tiny video screens. For more than an hour, they’ve been showing nothing but the busy London traffic and a patiently waiting Jonathan Wilson. Because Sherlock is one of the suitors, the eligible bachelor isn’t supposed to lay eyes on him just yet, so they’ve been stuffed away in the scullery of The Landmark, the restaurant/hotel where the first episode will be filmed and the candidates will be staying as well. 

Sherlock will be the last suitor to meet Jonathan, and he’s already dressed for the occasion: white, almost see-through shirt carefully tucked into his black trousers, black suit jacket to finish off the look. Product in his hair. He looks impeccable.

Onscreen, the first limousine pulls up, stops in front of the domed entrance to the hotel, then suddenly backs up again. Cars hoot violently, swerve out of the way, there’s shouting.

“Someone botched the shot”, Sherlock says, lightly touching the earpiece given to him by the production team. It puts him in touch with the main communication radio wave.

The limo arrives at The Landmark once again, and Jonathan Wilson nervously straightens his rather ugly black-red-yellow tie. It’s the only stain on an otherwise amazing look. They’ve forced him into a stunning, tight, deep blue suit. He still looks like a soft marshmellow, but now a smouldering one. 

An usher opens the car door - he looks official and posh but he’s actually an ageing, amateur actor. He moves slowly not only for dramatic effect but to get more screen time. 

A surprisingly young, beautiful man emerges.

“Hi,” he says, halfway raising his hand as if he's not sure if a handshake is appropriate. “I'm Stephen Bainbridge.”

“Hello… How old are you, Stephen?”, Jonathan asks, a bit taken aback.

“Clearly has a kink for older men,” Sherlock mumbles next to John, not taking his eyes off the screens. “Military man, possibly royal guard. Went out last night and hooked up with a stranger. What you think is shyness, is actually repressed guilt about that.”

“24, sir, but I hope that's no reason to dismiss me,” Stephen says, eyes bright. “I like you not for your age but for who you are, and I hope you might extend me the same courtesy.”

“Practised line”, Sherlock says.

On screen, Jonathan smiles and kisses Stephen on the cheek. He sends him off into the hotel where he's instructed to wait for the other candidates to join him in the reception area. Any bickering there will be recorded, too, of course. John rolls his eyes at the predictable superficiality of it all. 

A second suitor shakes hands with Jonathan – a firm grip, self assured.

“I'm Charles Augustus Magnussen”, the man says. “But call me Charles.”

If there was ever a polar opposite of Stephen Bainbridge, he would be it: older, a little balding, glasses, expensive suit, a weird vibe.

“Hello Charles, I'm Jonathan. What do you do?” 

“I'm a businessman. I own a few newspapers.”

Jonathan's hairline slightly shifts as he raises his eyebrows in surprise.

“Oh. Ever published anything about me?”

Likely, John reckons. This Jonathan Wilson guy is a celebrity doctor - he was in a show called ‘Top Doctors’, and has appeared as a specialist (and eye candy) on numerous talk shows.

Charles smiles. “I wouldn't doubt it. You are a very interesting man, Jonathan.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “He's downplaying it. He doesn't own 'a few' newspapers, he owns half of Britain's, and then some. He's of Danish descent, but hasn't been there for at least five years. Only child, obviously. Had breakfast at this very hotel this morning, to get a feeling of this place. He found out where the show would be shot by paying off a production assistant.”

“Right. So he's the man who wrote the threatening note? We're done here?” John frowns.

“Or a very eager candidate. Could be genuine interest. Or, more likely, to sell more papers. You can't arrest a shark for being a shark, John,” Sherlock says. 

John nods and focuses on the screens again. From a new limousine – or the first one, again – a scruffy man emerges, about thirty-ish. Sherlock groans.

“He should have chosen a different shirt,” Sherlock says.

The man combs his fingers through his grubby, brown hair and wipes his hands on his lightly stained, white shirt. 

“Nice to meet ya.  _ You, _ ” he says. “The name's Bill. Bill Wiggins.”

Jonathan Wilson smiles.

“What do you do, Bill?”

“I work as a chemist,” Bill says. “So you can talk nerdy to me all you want.”

He winks. But it's apparently charming Jonathan, because the man giggles and kisses him on the cheek.

Next to John, Sherlock rolls his eyes. The next few candidates pass by quickly. There's Hot Oncologist James (“two doctors, won’t work”), Hipster Beard Alan (“coffeeshop addict”), some photographer named Jonathan (“two Jonathans, won't work”), Aristocrat Chris (“too high-brow for a modest man like Jonathan”) and the frankly terrifyingly large Phil (“looks like a giant, probably a tender lover so actually not a bad match”).

The last suitor introduces himself as David, an aspiring actor and playwright. 

“A playwright? That's impressive. I'm so excited to meet a writer,” Jonathan says, shaking his hand. “I could barely form two sentences without confusing _they're_ and _their_.”

Back in the monitor room, Sherlock scoffs. “Playwright? He did one off-off-West End show, to which only friends and frenemies of the cast came. Not even his own mother attended.”

“That's fine, if you mess them up while texting me, I won't have a heart attack,” David winks, smoothly. “Or perhaps I should, if it will get you to rip my shirt off, Mister Heart Surgeon.”

Sherlock scoffs at the flirting. “Look at that outfit,” he says. “Cobalt blue jacket, striped green shirt, yellow tie. It's what he thinks a gay man would wear. Stephen Fry wore that exact outfit in last week's rerun of  _ QI _ . Clearly, this David is a straight guy looking for fame.”

John frowns. “What if he picks him? Should we warn him?” 

“We're looking for a killer, not a green card into heaven, John.”

That was the ninth candidate. It's high time for Sherlock to leave for his limousine. 

“That was amazing”, John says. “But how did you know about the mother thing? Or that Stephen Bainbridge was a royal guard? Seems a bit of a leap, he didn’t strike _me_ as an army man.”

Sherlock looks slightly offended. 

“Royal guards have a very distinct stance, John. They can't help it, even outside of work, they stand extraordinarily upright. He also introduced himself by both his first and last name, which seems overly formal for a young man. But he’s just more used to thinking of himself by his last name, Bainbridge. I could also tell from his haircut he had military training, but wasn't in combat anymore because it was two inches too long.” Small pause. “And yes, maybe I have been sent all the audition tapes prior to the start of the shooting, but even so, that's not cheating, that's  _ research.” _

He lightly fingers the transmitter in his ear, where the director is practically yelling at him because of the time delay. 

“Time for me to go”, he adds, and he quickly puts some cream on his face and adds a black bow tie to complete his outfit. There is no mirror in the room. He looks at John.

“Do I...?”

“Yes. Yes. Go.” John watches him leave for the limousine, which is already waiting at the back entrance.

John turns to the screens, where he's about to see Sherlock Holmes meet Jonathan Wilson, gay bachelor.

 

***   
  
The camera angle in the limo makes Sherlock’s legs seem even longer than they already are. Absentmindedly Sherlock rubs his upper lip and stares out the window. Trying to catch his reflection? John squints at the tiny monitor of the limousine's feed. He can't be sure, of anything.

“What's it like being inside of a limousine?” John asks into the microphone that's connected to Sherlock's earpiece. 

On the screen, Sherlock startles out of deep thought.   


“Like being inside my own mind,” he says, polishing the leather plush of the seating.

John grins. “Nervous?”

“Why would I be nervous?”

The limousine halts and the usher opens Sherlock's door. He emerges like a ghost from a casket, so pale he's almost transparent, all mystery and... cheekbones.

“Germany or the Belgium?” Sherlock asks, without even bothering to introduce himself. Already a whirlwind, coat clapping behind him.

“Sorry?”, Jonathan says, frowning.

John groans. The man might not even wait for the rose ceremony to boot Sherlock off the show. Swank pot.

“Which was it – Germany or Belgium?”

“Germany, sorry. How did you know?” Jonathan asks. “My choice of holiday destination isn't exactly public knowledge.”

John notices the tiny hint of a smile Sherlock employs right before he's about to show off his deduction skills. 

“Your tie. You chose a black silk tie with yellow and red details. You haven't worn this one before, because you wanted to wear something special. You don't often go shopping so you picked one from a recent travel abroad. In this case, you didn’t realise that you bought the tie in the country's flag colors. It's a tourist souvenir – surely, an expensive one, but nevertheless. Tourist trap.”

He briefly smiles before continuing. “Black, yellow and red, that doesn't leave too many options. No offense, but you're not the type to travel very far, so countries like Uganda and Angola are out. Belgium or Germany it is.” 

Sherlock quirks the corner of his mouth. “My name is Sherlock Holmes, and as you might have guessed, I'm a detective.”

Jonathan Wilson raises his eyebrows in surprise. “You're a cop?”

“No, I'm a professional.”

They both laugh goofily, and Jonathan shakes his hand. 

“I'm Jonathan”, he says. “But call me Jon.”

Sherlock smiles, and it's a smile John hasn't seen in months. Like he's opening all the windows and letting the light fall in. Is this  _ acting _ ?

“Nice to meet you, Jonathan”, he says, and he removes his bow tie as he strides into the Landmark hotel. 

The camera zooms in on Jonathan Wilson's face. The heart surgeon is staring at the detective, all wide-eyed, mouth slightly open, a little overwhelmed. His eyes are sparkling.

  
***   
  
The preparations for the first rose ceremony take forever. The gaffer keeps complaining about the lighting, even though they’re in the emptied hotel restaurant, a beautiful space that barely needs a nudge in the right direction. Perhaps she doesn’t like being outstaged by unedited beauty.

All the suitors are standing in a cluster, and Sherlock is chatting with a few of them. Or rather, interrogating them, without their knowledge. They crunch their noses and raise their chins at him. A few feet away, surrounded by cameras and microphones, John observes Sherlock’s tiny gestures, his fake smiles. He can’t blame the other candidates for acting hostile. He’s easily the most beautiful man among them.

“Reckon he's bisexual?” a dark haired woman suddenly asks. He hadn’t even noticed she’d approached him. 

“Who?” He folds his arms over his chest.

“Sherlock Holmes,” she smiles at him. “I mean, if he's not really here to compete, I might as well have a go at him, right?”

“He's not...” John trails off. What would he even say, or deny? He's not gay?  _ Isn't _ he? Perhaps he's not interested in anyone. Perhaps it's women after all. Both. Neither. Nobody knows about Sherlock Holmes, not even him, his closest friend.

Well, is he the closest? Maybe Molly would be considered Sherlock’s closest friend, since she knew about his plan to fake his death. John swallows. Sherlock explained about the snipers. It would be rather ungrateful to be jealous of Molly, then, wouldn't it? Sherlock almost died for him. 

“Oh.” The woman winks playfully. 

John uncrosses his arms, to show he has nothing to hide. 

“Pity,” she says, and extends her hand. “I'm Janine, the show's producer. I'm one of the few people who knows of you and Sherlock's real purpose here, so you can speak freely.”

“There’s nothing to say, really. But thanks,” John says, turning away from her. 

In the distance, Charles A. Magnussen whispers something in Sherlock’s ear.

“I hope you’re not too worried,” John adds. “Sherlock is really good at his job. He’ll find the creep who threatened Wilson soon enough.”

“Are you kidding?” Janine says. “I hope he stays. It’ll be bloody good for the ratings. With or without an actual murder. Closer, you little fucker!”

Those last words, she yelled at one of the junior camera operators. 

“Oh, finally, she’s here,” she says, as the presenter of the reality show arrives in the restaurant. All the tables have been put to the side to create a tiny stage in the center of the room, yet it feels like the chairs are  _ still _ bowing to her as she descends the stairs.

John’s mouth falls open.

It’s Mary Morstan, famous socialite and a BBC icon who recently diverted to Channel 5. Overwhelmingly better pay, probably. Officially: “the people working there are just so lovely”.

Mary immediately walks up to the suitors while manhandling Jonathan Wilson to his designated spot. She holds out her face and waits for a nervous young woman to brush some powder over her features. Not that she really needs any more make-up. She looks stunning, as does her purple dress, which leaves part of her shoulders bare. 

Janine hurries over to her.

“Right,” Mary says. “Sorry that took so long.”

“Nonsense,” Janine answers, while someone pins a microphone to Mary’s dress. “You’re the best thing that could have happened to us. You’re worth the wait.”

They both smile - at least it  _ looks _ like smiling, John thinks.

The suitors have taken position now, like a boy’s choir, arranged by height. Sherlock is somewhere in the back, looking rather worried. John wonders if he’s found the potential killer yet. Surely he would have stopped production by now if he had? Though he does like a touch of the dramatics. He’s a drama queen. But he wouldn’t make his deductions while the cameras are rolling, right?

John smiles. Of course he would. Git.

But what if the guilty suitor is an armed assassin? John curses under his breath. Should have brought his gun.

The set grows eerily quiet. The camera, attached to a large crane, seeks Mary’s face like a dragon seeking a target for his fire.

“Welcome back to ‘Wilson Needs A Heart’,” she says, arms folded in front of her.

John assumes there are commercials planned before this point.

“We’re gathered at the Landmark hotel in London, for the first rose ceremony. Ten eager singles have bared glimpses of their hearts. But who’s making Doctor Wilson’s heart beat faster? Who will beat the others?”

Dramatic pause.

“Only eight people will go on to the next round. Only eight men will…”

Jonathan Wilson coughs.

“Actually, I’ve decided to eliminate three people tonight,” Jonathan Wilson says.

“Oh, _shite_ ,” Janine whispers softly next to John. 

In the distance, Sherlock locks eyes with John. Maybe Jonathan has figured out that Sherlock’s presence means his life is in danger? And he knows which one of the suitors is particularly unsuited? Or maybe not, and he just hates three people. Maybe he’ll boot Sherlock, unknowingly putting himself in danger. Unprotected.

“Oh? Go on.” Mary says, channeling her surprise in a cool, measured way. Oh. She’s good.

“Well… Yes. This is my show and if I’m going to be serious about this…” Jonathan stops, absentmindedly fondling his tie. “This is my life we’re talking about. I don’t want to string anyone along just for the sake of a television show. No offense.”

Mary puts a hand on his shoulder. “That’s alright. Let’s start with the first rose, shall we?”

She points to the large black pillow on which still eight roses are resting. Janine, meanwhile, frantically motions to the floor runner, a scrawny looking hipster kid, probably right out of film school, who’s wearing a beanie that’s way too big for his head and not appropriate indoors anyway. He crouches down in what he thinks is a subtle way, and snatches the last rose off the satin pillow. 

_ He wishes, _ John thinks.

The camera makes a nice bird’s-eye view shot of the seven roses, as Jonathan takes the first one.

“I’ve only met all of you very briefly, and you lot know a lot more about me than I do about you, so it’s very hard to judge on fleeting impressions. But there is one man who stood out just a little more.”

He lifts the rose.

“David.”

David? Straight guy David?

“I’m looking forward to getting to know you. Please collect the first rose.”

David smiles broadly, grabs the rose and hugs Jonathan. Bold move. With his head away from view, he smiles at Mary Morstan. Bolder.

The next rose is for Bainbridge, who looks so happy he would have wagged his tail if he had one. Magnussen accepts his rose with a suave grin. The amateur photographer Jonathan gets a flower, as do Bill the chemist and even giant Phil. 

Until there’s only one more rose left. 

“This is your final rose,” Mary states.

Jonathan looks at it thoughtfully. In front of him, four men remain: Hipster Beard Alan, Hot Oncologist James, Aristocrat Chris, and Sherlock, who looks down at the floor now, fiddles with his hands. When he lifts his chin, a mask of indifference has slipped on. 

John doesn’t know what to make of that. It seems Sherlock needs more time to solve this case, so he should up his game a little, lay on the flirting a little thicker. He catches Sherlock’s gaze and smiles encouragingly at him. Sherlock’s shoulders relax, and he focuses on bachelor Jonathan. Smiles warmly.

“This was a really hard decision for me,” Jonathan says. “You’re all remarkable men. Alan, I love your dreamy outlook on life, and it seems like your business idea for fair trade coffee cups has real potential. However, I don’t know if there is much room for love in your life when you are still sorting everything else out. Chris, you made an impression on me with your determinedness but I fear we might have different outlooks on life, and I don’t know how well we would fare in a relationship. James, you are an amazing man and doctor and I love that we are so similar. But, that might be our problem too. We could be too alike, you and I. And then there’s you, Sherlock.”

He pauses, and waits until Sherlock looks up. 

Sherlock stands stock still. Not even breathing.

“I must admit, I quickly googled you on my phone after our meeting. You do lead a very interesting life. You were even dead for a while, it seems. That one took me by surprise. Sounds dangerous.” A weary smile. “Maybe too dangerous?”

Mary scrapes her throat. “A hard choice indeed. Have you come to a decision?”

Jonathan holds out the single flower.

“Sherlock. Please come collect your rose.”

Sherlock doesn’t move. Not one bit.

The camera zooms in on his face. Alarmingly, nothing registers on it.

Jonathan waits patiently. John tries to catch Sherlock’s attention, but it’s only when Hipster Beard Alan grudgingly pokes him in the side with his elbow, that he moves forward. He walks up to Jonathan and takes the rose as if it’s a bomb he’s been tasked to diffuse.

“Thank you,” he mumbles, and joins the other contestants.

“Take a moment, say your goodbyes,” Mary tells the teary rejects.

When Janine finally yells “cut”, John walks onto the set with large strides, grabs Sherlock’s arm and drags him through the kitchen to the scullery. 

  
***   
  


Sherlock rapidly blinks, surprised. “What's wrong, John? Did you find the killer?”

“Did  _ you _ ?” John asks, panting, even though he wasn't even running from anything in the first place.

Sherlock averts his eyes and slides his long fingers alongside the rose’s stalk. Most thorns have been removed, but higher, nearby the bud, he fondles a forgotten one. 

“It appears there are more variables than I anticipated,” he says. “More than one man has something to hide, and I’m not sure yet what or why. They were hostile to my attempts to socialise, which, given the circumstances, is not surprising.” His thumb presses into the thorn. “In conclusion, I will have to extend my stay in order to unmask the intended killer. Of course, Jonathan Wilson's room will be secured throughout filming, and he'll be constantly surrounded by cameras. Not that it will take me much longer to identify the killer.”

“So you're actually going to go through with this?” John asks.

Sherlock looks up sharply.

John pushes further. “Half an episode, people will understand. Sherlock Holmes is on a case! They’ll be thrilled. But one or multiple episodes? You’re going to be on national television, parading around, people will think -”

Sherlock's arms drop alongside his body. The rose dangles helplessly. On his left thumb, a droplet of blood.

“Why does it bother you so much, John? What business is it of yours?”

John startles. As his closest friend, it's his business to protect him. John knows how the media are, how journalists are, how they can make Twitter squirm like a virgin bride. If Sherlock pretends to be a homosexual for a case, it could easily trigger a nasty backlash. People don’t just stand for that kind of queerbaiting anymore, in this day and age.

And yes, somewhere in the back of his mind, the question gnaws at him: what if Sherlock is not pretending? What if he really is into men? John swallows. For years they have lived together, and not once has Sherlock mentioned this. And before they’ve even had one little conversation, Sherlock comes out of the closet in front of millions of strangers? 

This is yet another thing he should have seen, but didn’t. Yet another secret Sherlock didn’t trust him with.

“Look – if you are ... actually...” John swears internally. He started speaking with an angry tone of voice, while in reality, he’d like Sherlock to feel secure enough to show who he really is. No wonder he never has.

Sherlock's eyes flicker, as if they’re reaching several conclusions at once. John wishes he could make himself invisible to their scrutiny. Their unrelenting, cutting judgment. 

“Right. Of course. If the whole British public assumes I am gay, and they also know  _ you _ , John Watson, of the fifth Northumberland fusiliers, are my live-in companion... Is that what's bothering you, John? That they will assume  _ you _ are gay as well?”

John feels stricken. He can't believe Sherlock would think so lowly of him. But then again, it's always been clear that he does, hasn't it? It's not as if Sherlock has ever let him in on what he's truly feeling. Because he  _ is _ feeling. He’s not a sociopath. But what is he?

And what's even the right answer to his question? That it doesn't matter if people think John also loves men? John quickly considers the consequences. Would a rumor like that hinder his future love life? Maybe it would scare off women, potential girlfriends. He hadn't even thought about that. But now that it crossed his mind, he feels immediately ashamed that it has. It's the sort of physical shame that creeps over his eyes like a shadow, and he sees Sherlock tense completely. Oh god. He must be reading it all over his face.

Sherlock throws the rose at his feet, and walks away, leaving swinging doors. 

John closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from the incredible Camp Rock song 'Introducing Me'. Don't judge me. (I thought it would be funny since John grew a mustache in The Empty Hearse, from which I borrow some elements) 
> 
> I have to thank my beta 88thparallel once more for all her lovely feedback, encouragements, late night pep talks and corrections. <3
> 
> Also, I have to thank all you guys. The response to this fic has been... overwhelming. I cherish each comment, each kudo, and also every silent reader. You guys literally fuel my writing and revising.
> 
> I hope so much you guys enjoyed this chapter.


	3. It’s not lying, it’s looking at things another way

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A first group date, and a touching scene.

**@LauraTEHclub – 7:07am**

_OhHHHHHHHHMiGOD i can’t believe Sherlock Holmes ACTUALLY ENROLLED in #WilsonNeedsAHeart #WNAH_

 

**@andersonTEHclub – 7:12am**

_@LauraTEHclub @ChannelFiveUK This is hilarious. Careful though I don’t think it’s been confirmed that SH has a heart #roflol #WNAH_

 

**@MasterOfNunVaginas – 7:33am**

_always knew sherlock HOLES was a poofter #WNAH_

 

**@HolmesBabe4eva – 7:41am**

_im dyinnnnnnnnnnnggggggggg jonathan wilson is some stupid celeb empty head doctor he’s not right for Sherlock_

 

**@LauraTEHclub – 7:42am**

_@HolmesBabe4eva i dunno i kinda ship them #jonlock #TheGayIsOn #WNAH #sherlockholmes_

 

John knows he shouldn’t have searched the hashtag. But here he is, early morning in his hotel room wrapped up in his complimentary bathrobe, exposing himself to the bird shit that is a Twitter timeline. He closes his eyes. The first episode hasn’t even aired yet, and #WNAH is already trending. Apparently, a “photographer” of the Daily Fail had captured the moment Sherlock exited his limousine to meet Wilson. The picture is grainy, yet clear.

Sherlock Holmes is back in the spotlight, to do reality television. Risen from the grave, to enter hell.

This is exactly what John was afraid of.

All the attention. All the people assuming Sherlock Holmes is gay, and then, when the truth comes out, they’ll be furiously tweeting he was just heartlessly pretending for a case.

The man himself, meanwhile, is not talking to him. After last night’s rose ceremony, Sherlock was obligated to do interviews, provide soundbites, engage in photoshoots. They kept the candidates awake for hours and hours, hoping they’d say something mean about the others (they’d have a harder time provoking a kind word from Sherlock). John didn’t stay for the circus, but retired early.

Woke up early, too, to his best friend being analysed all over Twitter.

Someone knocks on the door. Quickly, John slips his smartphone into the pocket of his bathrobe, closes it a little tighter and opens the door. He startles.

“Hop in the shower," Sherlock says, eyes hard. “I need you.”

 

***

That’s how John suddenly finds himself in the third row of the Apollo Victoria Theatre in London, equipped with headphones to listen in, and a tiny microphone with which he can whisper flirting instructions into Sherlock’s tiny earpiece during the first group date. Sherlock did prick him a few times this morning while pinning the microphone on him. The only evidence that their fight hadn’t been forgotten. Typical. Maybe, once this case was over, they’d have a proper row over it. Maybe he’d be off Sherlock’s cases forever, unless for some reason he’d need another flirting expert, or - a doctor.

Jonathan Wilson walks past, disappears behind a side door.

The Apollo Victoria is the biggest London theatre, and carries its past and current glory like a mythical beast. John fondly remembers coming here with his schoolmates during the 18 year run of Starlight Express, the epic skating musical for which tracks were built inside the auditorium, through the stalls and even in the balcony. Since 2002 the tracks have disappeared to make room for more seats, and its new success musical: Wicked.

The safety curtain rises. The stage is set.

John’s mouth falls open. The sight is, for lack of a better word, ungodly. The seven suitors are all dressed up as characters from the musical. Charles Augustus Magnussen, David and Stephen Bainbridge are wearing wide girly dresses and blonde wigs. Phil, Jonathan and Sherlock seem to be their goth counterparts: black dresses and, much to Sherlock’s visible distress, faces covered in green paint. Bill Wiggins, for reasons unclear, is dressed as some sort of creepy flying monkey.

It’s Dorothy’s worst nightmare.

The producer pushes Jonathan Wilson closer to the worst witches, and claps her hands.

“Alright boys, we’re still waiting for Mary to arrive. I know you’ve been practising your lines since this morning, but when Mary explains why you’re here, try to act surprised, okay,” Janine says.

Sherlock’s contempt is venomous. “For god’s sake, we’re dressed as doped up Elphabas and Glindas, how surprised are we supposed to be?”

“Surprised”, Janine repeats, with a fixed stare on Sherlock. “And bloody _delighted_.”

John puts his hand over his mouth. Judging from the annoyed look on his face, Sherlock can hear him giggling into the microphone.

“Remember, the one to impress Jonathan Wilson the most, wins a private date with him,” Janine says.

On stage, David scuffles closer to the goth detective.

“This is great”, the man says. “I love musicals.”

He tucks a blonde curl behind his ears. Straight as an arrow or not, he’s really aiming to win this show, no matter how tight the corset. John will give him that.

Sherlock visibly rolls his eyes, and John braces himself.

“Me too, gosh, aren’t they _the best_ ”, he says. “What’s your favorite musical?”

“Eh, Les Miserables”, David answers. Dangerous: improv on a stage.

“Oh? What did you think of Russell Crowe as Javert?”

David adjusts his wig. “Loved him, of course.”

“That’s what I thought.” Sherlock’s voice is cold as ice.

John sighs deeply. Alright, enough of this. Let’s put a cork in it.

“Sherlock… Down boy,” John whispers into his microphone. “I can practically _hear_ the camera zooming in on you two, and it’s not going to look pretty on television. Let’s try focusing on your target. I mean _the_ target.

Almost imperceptibly, Sherlock nods in John’s general direction. As they’re all waiting for Mary to arrive, Jonathan stands alone like a strayed hare on the hunting ground. Sherlock subtly shuffles over, and joins him at his side to stare at the other contestants, who look back in anger.

“Drag and lip synching. Is RuPaul’s body hidden in the airing cupboard?”, Sherlock says, adjusting his skirt.

Jonathan Wilson smiles. “It’s all a bit silly, isn’t it? It was the production’s idea, of course. See the costume Charles is wearing? It takes months and months to make. The sequins are hand-stitched. For Wicked to break even, they need to sell _a lot_ of tickets.”

Sherlock frowns. “So this is for show? You don’t really like musicals?”

_(John whispers softly into the microphone: “Look at him. In the eyes. Smile, Sherlock.”)_

“Oh, I do,” Jonathan says.

_(“Good, good. Now lick your lips, Sherlock”, John whispers.)_

Sherlock frowns. “But you’re a doctor.”

_(“Do it! Lick those lips at him.”)_

On stage, Sherlock shakes his head.

“Yes, _and_ I’ve seen a lot of musicals,” Jonathan says. “Enough for a lifetime. Yet, I always want to see more.”

_(John hisses, annoyed. “Lick. Them.”)_

“No”, Sherlock says out loud, shaking his head as if it will force his earpiece to fall out.

“What?” Jonathan asks, slightly stunned.

Sherlock blinks, panicked. Turns out he’s the hare, not the hunter. “I mean… Eh. It’s good to… have passions…”

There’s a long, awkward stare. John panics. Should he still suggest the lip licking?

But before he can open his mouth, Bill Wiggins joins them, monkey’s tail dragging behind him.

“What are you boys talking about?” Bill asks.

“Not you”, Sherlock mumbles

Before things can get out of hand, they start shooting the episode. Each Elphaba is paired with their Glinda, and while the others look on from the wings, they perform their parts.

Charles and Phil make an odd couple, one being skinny and wooden, the other a towering green giant, more Hulk than Elphaba. And it’s not cute in a _Thor: Ragnarok_ kind of way, as Charles begrudgingly brushes Phil’s hair explaining how to be popular.

Stephen Bainbridge and Jonathan Smalls genuinely try their best during _For Good_. Although the line “I don’t know I have been changed for the better, but because I knew you, I have been changed for good” would probably have been a bit more heart wrenching if it hadn’t been for a crazed flying monkey in the background trying to steal the spotlight.

John is wiping tears from his eyes by the time they start preparations for Sherlock and David’s performance.

“Are we even insured for this… lunacy?” Sherlock asks the stage technician, bewildered. He rubs his temples, accidentally wiping off some of the green paint.

The man is showing him the small platform where he’s about to stand on, a tiny hydraulic lift designed to make it seem like he’s flying.

“I can’t believe the others got to sit on a bed together, giggling in each other’s general direction, and I got dealt _defying bloody gravity_.”

“It’s all very straightforward, sir. Just step up here and whip your cape all over the mechanics so the audience doesn’t see it when you rise. The fabric is the same as your costume’s, so it creates the illusion of a huge skirt that grows as you rise into the air. When you’re inside, just use your back to press on that lever over there, so it closes you in around your waist. Only when the bars are closed properly, the lift will start to rise.”

Sherlock puts his hand over the microphone, but John can still hear him.

“I’m not a… fan of heights”, Sherlock says, softer.

Janine joins them. She slaps them on the backs. “Let’s wrap this up, shall we. We’re already running late on schedule.”

Sherlock looks into the audience, his face unreadable.

“Wear the hat, Sherlock,” John urges him. Sherlock scowls, but puts on the black pointy witches’ hat.

With David as Glinda, the dialogue sounds tense and almost hostile, even as the two frenemies are supposed to be growing closer together. “Can’t I make you understand you’re having delusions of grandeur?” David lipsynchs, and Sherlock can barely keep his face in check as he delivers his lines.

“Too long I’ve been afraid of losing love I guess I’ve lost,” Sherlock mouths, and John can hear him softly singing along in his earphones. He knows this music better than he let on.

It’s clear, however, David is not as dedicated to the story of the song. He keeps looking back and smiling at Jonathan Wilson in the wings. Sherlock notices, and his face grows angry, determined, and not only because Elphaba has just summoned a broom.

He steps onto the platform with more panache than ever, and rises skyward, flooded in light and smoke. “And if I’m flying solo, at least I’m flying free!”

He waves his broom in glory. John’s neck stretches, mouth hanging open. It’s a magnificent sight to behold.

Until, suddenly, Sherlock stops singing, stops mouthing along, looking briefly unsure for three long seconds.

“Everything okay up there, your Highness?”, John jokes into the microphone, but a frown creeps on his face.

Sherlock starts moving his lips again, but his heart is not in it anymore. He keeps looking up, while he should be looking down at Glinda and the guards - played by members of the actual ensemble.

It all happens very fast, then. Something crashes from the ceiling, right above where Jonathan Wilson is standing in the wings. Though before it can hit him, something else has knocked him over.

Sherlock’s broom.

The music cuts abruptly and dramatically. The only sound is now the light buzz from the hydraulic lift as Sherlock is excruciatingly slowly lowered back to the stage. Meanwhile, a small crowd has gathered around Jonathan Wilson, who’s lying next to a shattered floodlight, rubbing his temple from where the broom hit him.

Sherlock pushes through the crowd, and looks at the sight, mortified.

“Not what I had in mind when I thought gorgeous men would be hitting on me”, Jonathan Wilson says, groaning. He looks at the massive floodlight. “Though I should thank you, I suppose. You saved my life. How about a date?”

Sherlock stares, speechless.

 

***

John finds Sherlock in his dressing room, still in full costume, arms gripping either side of the small table. He’s trembling in front of the mirror. John quietly closes the door behind him, and removes his headset.

“I need to quit this show, John.”

Not what John had expected. “You… You can’t.”

Sherlock turns around abruptly. “You SAW what happened in there!”

His face is distorted, as if he’s in pain.

“Could be coincidence,” John tries.

Sherlock falters, as if he’s physically struck by so much stupidity. “Coincidence? That a spotlight nearly falls on top of Doctor Wilson? During _defying gravity_?”

John swallows. “You can’t back out now.”

“Why the hell not, John?”

He holds up his phone. “Twitter’s been going crazy all day. Everyone already… knows.”

Sherlock slams his fist on the table, the mirror quavers. “Oh for god’s sake John, not this again!”

John feels his cheeks burning. That’s not what he meant. It’s not about Sherlock being gay or not (is it? is he?).

“Sherlock. You can’t leave now and let that man be murdered. People will know you just… walked away.”

“Oh _really_? I can’t protect him like this, John. If I’m prancing around singing musical numbers while Wilson gets slaughtered on television, how do you think that will look? What hashtags will they come up with then?”

He pushes John out the door, and slams it in his face.

 

***

 

“The diva’s refusing to cooperate.”

 _Jesus christ._ John didn’t even know Janine had a copy of his hotel room’s key card, and jumps as she barges in. He’d been sitting on his bed, dumbfounded. Ready to pack.

Janine claps her hands.

“Up, up. We need you. Sherlock is supposed to do his one-on-one date with Wilson, a massage, but he’s refusing to take off his bathrobe. He’s demanding we bring him his clothes and organise a different date. We don’t have time for this, John. He already made one gaffer quit, and another one is in tears.”

John opens his mouth to protest.

She pouts. “They’re calling you the Sherlock whisperer.”

When John enters the room, Sherlock is staring out the window. The room is covered in candles, shrouding him in shivering shadows. Sherlock’s back, wrapped in a white bathrobe, is ramrod straight. Sherlock could probably benefit from a relaxing rubdown, actually, John thinks as he eyes the massage bed in the middle of the room.

“I’m told you’re refusing a massage by doctor Wilson”, John says. “You’re not afraid he’s going to rub you the wrong way, are you?”

Sherlock keeps his eyes fixed on the glass. His reflection is cold.

John takes a few steps in his direction. Reconsiders his tactics. “Look… It’s just a massage. It’ll be fine.”

Sherlock turns around, and the soft candlelight bounces off his cheekbones. His eyes are shining, and John swallows. He reaches his hands out to Sherlock, who almost winces, but allows himself to be touched as John removes the microphone from his silk robe, turns it off and puts it in his back pocket.

“I can’t do this, John.”

Sherlock walks to the massage table and sits on it, like a patient in a doctor’s office. His long legs dangle awkwardly over the edge. His back is strangely stiff. Only now it crosses John’s mind that he’s probably naked underneath that soft, white silk.

“I’m sorry about what I said earlier. You can leave if you want. But I just… I trust in your abilities, and you’re going to find whoever wants to kill Wilson. In time.”

“No, I mean. _This._ I can’t undress.” Sherlock says.

Which is odd, coming from Sherlock. He has never seemed insecure about his looks - why would he be? He’s a stunning man, and more than once John has suspected him of taking advantage of it to charm a suspect into confessing.

Surely… Sherlock doesn’t need him to tell him he’s beautiful?

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, John.” Sherlock rolls his eyes, then looks down, clears his throat. “You know about this. You know why I can’t undress.”

“I do?”

John tries to catch Sherlock’s gaze, but it seems a lot further than London. Sherlock’s bathrobe slides a little down from his shoulder, and there, in a light too soft for such cruelty, a gleaming line curls around the edges.

John’s stomach sinks.

“Your scars.”

When Sherlock returned after two years of undercover work, he’d been wounded. He had redirected every conversation John had tried to start about it. But he’d winced when they’d hugged, and John hadn’t tried after.

John walks around the table and positions himself behind Sherlock, who sits unmoving. He hooks a shaky finger behind the silk, and pulls it lower and lower, slowly unveiling Sherlock’s tense shoulders. Sherlock lets him.

The sight leaves John temporarily speechless. His skin is like the cracked surface of an icy lake, milky lines stumbling over each other, creating a sinister chess board. His hand, pulling Sherlock’s robe back, freezes. The fist of his other hand clenches.

“Who beat you?”

Sherlock dips his head. A muscle twitches in his neck, but not because he’s going to speak.

John swallows. “It has healed rather well.”

It’s a bit of a lie, but Sherlock can’t see his own back anyway. So why should he suffer still?

“It happened in Serbia,” Sherlock says, his voice crawling to the surface from awful depths. He lifts his chin, but doesn’t turn around to look at John. His elbows tremble lightly, his fingers are tight like cobwebs around his knees. “They’d had me for three weeks before Mycroft found me. Another month until he had infiltrated their ranks.”

John softly touches Sherlock, right next to the longest scar, that reaches like an unwanted vein into the side of his neck. A small shiver ripples through Sherlock’s body, and John quickly retreats.

“Are they dead?”

“Yes.” Sherlock pulls his bathrobe up.

Silence.

“You know, _you_ could do the massaging, too,” John says.

Sherlock turns his head a little.

“You wouldn’t have to undress. Just ask Wilson to lie down and do the rubbing yourself.”

Sherlock turns toward John, eyes questioning. “I haven’t ever given a massage before.”  

John chuckles. “I didn’t think you had. But you know about anatomy, don’t you? Just, you know. Don’t accidentally paralyse him and you’re fine.”

The right corner of Sherlock’s mouth moves upwards. A glint in his eye. “Can you show me how to do it?”

He jumps off the table, and turns toward John.

“I’ll be Wilson,” he says, and disrobes.

It turns out he wasn’t completely naked under the robe, but wearing a small white towel around his waist. John glances at it as Sherlock lies down, on his belly, and loosens the towel so it only lightly covers his buttocks. John swallows. Right. He’s a doctor, not a holiday resort employee. What does he know of massages?

But - does Sherlock know any more? No. He can give the poor man some basic directions, he supposes.

He turns to a nearby table, where there’s a single red rose and a large bottle of rose scented massage oil. He pours some of it on Sherlock’s back, and rubs some oil between his hands, slowly heating them against each other.

John directs Sherlock’s hands to his sides, and positions himself at Sherlock’s head. When he puts the palms of his hands on his back, Sherlock tenses completely. John waits patiently, until Sherlock slowly lets go and starts breathing evenly. Then, he strokes all the way down over his back, careful to keep his fingers together and thumbs parallel. Sherlock makes a tiny throat noise, encouraging John to repeat this movement.

“Just keep it simple and even, use long strokes like this, and Wilson will love it,” John says, feeling a little weirded out. He has massaged girlfriends before, but never a man. Never… Sherlock.

Though this doesn’t count. They’re both pretending to be someone else, after all.

John moves to the side of the table, gently pressing his thumbs into Sherlock’s shoulders. Seeing those scars makes his heart ache, makes him want to go punch a wall. But he channels that energy into soft, circular motions instead. He localises knotted areas, like reading a book written in braille. God, Sherlock really is very stressed.

“Apply some pressure and rotate slowly, just like this. Do you like that?”

Sherlock nods.

John slowly works on Sherlock’s back, kneading tissue, loosening muscles, until he’s soft and pliant. Like smoothing a crumpled piece of paper.

John moves onto different parts of Sherlock’s body.

“You know, flirting is something people don’t always do with their words, but also with their bodies,” John explains, as he works on the back of Sherlock’s thighs. “For example, you can imply a lot by slowing down as you move further upwards.”

He demonstrates by placing both his hands on Sherlock’s legs, and sliding sensually, almost breathtakingly slowly upwards. Christ. Sherlock is so smooth, so soft and beautiful. John feels a slight shiver in his own legs.

“Without going too far, of course,” John explains, as his fingers slide slowly inwards Sherlock’s legs, to stop just short of the towel’s edges. He glances at the fabric resting off Sherlock’s curved buttocks. It throws a wicked shadow.

He’s just doing this to, you know, show him how he can flirt with Wilson, later.

“How far…” Sherlock’s voice sounds restrained. His eyes are shut. “Is too far?”

John freezes. His fingertips burn on the inside of Sherlock’s legs. But he can’t will them to move. Is Sherlock asking this from a scientific point of view? Just a purely theoretical question? Sherlock has stopped breathing, it seems. Are John’s hands trembling, or are Sherlock’s legs?

A strange atmosphere enters the room. Slightly, just one inch, John’s right hand slides upwards.

He can’t. He can’t.

Sherlock sucks in his breath.

That’s all it takes. John grows rock hard. He groans, cursing himself for his teenage boy behaviour.

Sherlock lightly, almost undetectably, spreads his legs a little farther apart. Intentionally? John can feel his erection quietly leaking through his pants against the inside of his jeans. But of course, that’s normal. He hasn’t touched anyone in nearly three years. His body is bound to react to any sort of contact.

He reaches the soft fabric of the towel, and his fingertips slide a little further up, because of the oil just as much as because of sheer will. Sherlock is eerily quiet.

John feels heat radiating off Sherlock. He slowly slips further, not daring to use any more fingers but one.

“I’m here, sir”, a voice suddenly booms as the door swings open. John quickly retreats his hands and rubs them on his upper legs.  

It’s the hipster assistant, the one who wears beanies indoors. He’s carrying a white shirt and a pair of black pants.

“Your clothes, as requested”, the boy says, completely oblivious.

Sherlock raises his head from the table.

”Yes, give me a minute, please, I’ll ready myself to accommodate Jonathan.”

John is already halfway out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry John, this chapter was angst with no happy ending. ;)
> 
> The title is a line from the musical Wicked. When Elphaba doesn't believe the love interest when he calls her beautiful - since she is green and all - he says, "It's not lying, it's looking at things another way". The first time I saw Wicked, that's one of the things that really made an impact on me. We all feel 'green' in a way, I suppose, we're all searching for someone to look past it. She says, nipping her scotch at the bar, holding her cigar, staring into the distance.
> 
> Special thanks to Wildishmazz (for the inspiration) and my beta 88thparallel (I owe her everything). 
> 
> Extra special thanks to all you readers out there. You seriously keep me going. I love hearing what you think, but if you just want to lurk, that's totally fine with me. I hope you enjoyed this chapter. <3


	4. A real closet case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jonathan Wilson is trying to go a bit further than Sherlock is really ready for. Maybe John can help? Time to talk about the elephant in the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extremely special thanks to my beta reader 88thparallel, who is so patient with me <3 
> 
> At one point in this chapter, she wrote this awesome note in the margins: "How do I translate the noise I just made? What sound would a small animal make after it’s been hit by a car and then the car backs up and rolls over it again and then someone walks over and insults its taste in music and then it starts to rain? That noise."
> 
> Feel free to guess where. ;)

“Get. Me. Out. Of this closet,” Sherlock hisses, almost not a whisper anymore.

“As I have been telling you, I don’t know the combination. They just don’t let me in on that sort of information.” John suppresses a giggle. “Now, don’t address me anymore, or they’ll know I’m helping you through this earpiece.”

“Ohhh, you’re  _ not  _ helping me.”

John snickers. The whole situation is just so splendidly ridiculous. They’re doing an escape room challenge today, where contestants are locked inside a space and need to use various clues to find keys, unlock doors and generally find their way out. It would have been perfect for Sherlock, if it wasn’t for the fact they locked him up as  _ part  _ of the challenge. 

The whole thing is set-up as a damsel in distress scenario. Sherlock, Bainbridge, Jonathan Smalls and a very squirmy David are locked inside a tiny closet space in the middle of a giant set. Meanwhile, Jonathan Wilson and three of his suitors - Bill Wiggins, Magnussen and Phil - have teamed up to try and rescue them. They’re running around like headless chickens, trying to piece together a five number combination.

A loud blowy noise disturbs the studio set, where the escape room is built. 

“Why does it sound like there’s an elephant in the room?” Bainbridge complains. 

“Because there is one,” Sherlock spews. “Use your bloody nose.”

Outside the set, on one of the screens, John watches the four suitors awkwardly search the closet’s walls for clues or unlocking mechanisms. It’s no use - the door can only be opened from the outside, by use of the code Wilson’s team has to find. The closet stands right outside an elephant’s cage. One code will open the closet door. The other will open the cage’s door. 

“Why IS there an elephant in that room, again?” Janine asks, rubbing her temples. 

“I just like elephants”, the set designer says, shrugging.

“Seems like a safety hazard to me, Arwel,” Janine sighs. 

“Don’t worry, even if they find the wrong code, a safety door will fall in front of the elephant’s cage. Nothing can go wrong,” Arwel says.

On set, Magnussen looks smugly at the others. “I’ve found it. I just counted all the squares in that last drawing, and now we have the last digits we needed for the code. It’s 23537.”

“Shit,” Arwel says, staring at the monitors in alarm.

They punch in the code.

“Shit,” Bill Wiggins says, as they watch the elephant’s cage be opened with an automatic zooming sound. The elephant looks rather bored, but still. This could go very wrong.

No safety door falls.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Arwel says, throwing his arms in the air. “Why did I leave the BBC?”

“Better pay. Weren’t you fired though?” Janine asks. 

“No,” Arwel says defensively, as the elephant curiously walks toward the open door. Next to it, Wilson, Phil, Magnussen and Wiggins stand paralysed with fear.

“Should we poison it?” Phil suggests. 

“That’s a coward’s way of murdering”, Magnussen says. 

“We’re not killing a bloody elephant,” Wilson gasps.

“... with poison,” Magnussen says.

Inside the closet, Bainbridge and David are slamming their fists against the wall now, in a blind panic. Jonathan Smalls is oddly quiet.  

“Oh bloody hell!” Sherlock yells, over the sounds of their strumming. “Wilson! Wilson! Can you hear me! I know the code! I know the bloody code!”

Wilson runs over to the closet, puts his ear to the side but is met with the feedback of David’s fist, so he keeps a bit more distance.

“It’s not a five digit code, it’s four digits. One for each wall of this bloody closet. Walk around it, and you’ll see a number etched into each side. I can feel the thickness of mine, right here, it’s an 8. They wanted you to think it was clever while the solution was staring you in the face the whole time! Now, please, read the other numbers and punch them into the machine. Please!”

Giant trumpet sound.

Wilson runs to the others. “8510! Those are the numbers! Please! I don’t know if they’re in the right order.”

“They’re not,” Sherlock grumbles - John smiles. Not yet in enough mortal danger to not be a dick about it.

“Please,” Wilson yells, out of breath. “Try any combination with these numbers!”

The number 1058 seems to work, finally. Sherlock and the others are freed from their confined space, the elephant has opted to go to his trough instead.

Janine turns to Arwel, and sighs very deeply. “Do you still like elephants?”

 

***

 

After the escape room challenge, there’s no true escape: the production team holds all the candidates hostage for interviews until they spill all possible venom about the other suitors. John retreats to his hotel room. It’s been a long day, not to mention there’s a rose ceremony tonight.

When he opens his hotel room door, he has a near heart-attack.

On his bed, sitting with legs crossed, is Mary Morstan. She’s not wearing one of her usual killer dresses, though - she’s dressed down. White sweatpants, a loose, blue sweater. As if she’s not some huge celebrity presenter, but a normal girl. Looking at him like this is Notting Hill, and he’s Hugh bloody Grant. 

She’s smiling.

She’s also holding a memory key.

“Hello, John.”

“Hello, Ms Morstan.”

“You can call me Mary”, she says. When John doesn’t react, she continues. “We have a slight problem with the talent.”

“The talent?” John crosses his arm across his chest.

“Yes. Currently, the star of our show is about to leave”, she explains.

John frowns. “Isn’t Jonathan contractually obliged to stay unless he’s willing to give up his firstborn child? Or do you people get the child either way?”

Mary smirks and waves the memory stick. “I’m talking about Sherlock, silly. Jonathan is about to boot him in the next rose ceremony.”

Well. That’s his prerogative, John thinks. Perhaps Sherlock isn’t really Jonathan’s type after all. He’s used to getting all the attention everywhere he goes, being a celebrity doctor and all. But Sherlock, well. When he enters a room, he fills it.

“I need this show to succeed, John. My career depends on it.” Mary lifts a laptop from the nightstand, and pats invitingly on the spot next to her on the bed. “Come here, gorgeous. I have something to show you.”

John grins. Not every day a famous socialite invites him to sit on, well, his own bed. He settles in while she plugs in the memory stick and a video starts to load.

It’s footage from yesterday in the massage room, after John had left. Uncut, unedited, and in high definition John can see Jonathan Wilson, wearing a fluffy bathrobe, greeting a fully dressed Sherlock with a kiss on the cheek. The camera zooms in to make sure to register Sherlock’s light blush as he directs Wilson to the table. Wilson disrobes, and he’s only wearing a pair of tight black trunks as he lays down on the table, smiling. 

Sherlock positions himself at the head of the massage table, exactly the way John did, just half an hour earlier. He generously pours massage oil and uses his hands to slowly slide down Jonathan’s back, until his fingertips are very close to the trunks. John swallows. It’s just as he’d shown him. Why is this slightly uncomfortable to watch, then? He’d never considered himself a _ homophobe _ . It’s just two men touching each other rather intimately, nothing wrong with that. He shifts. Mary coughs. 

“So far, so good”, she says.

John nods.

On screen, Sherlock moves to Jonathan’s side, just as John had, earlier. He mimics the movements John taught him perfectly. 

“Where did you learn to give massages like that? Have you been keeping naughty secrets?” Jonathan blatantly flirts. 

“It’s really just applying scientific principles”, Sherlock says, and John hopes to God he doesn’t elaborate and starts talking muscles, ligaments and tendons. Very unsexy.

“Oh really?” Jonathan says.

“Well, you just need good chemistry.”

They both laugh, and Sherlock moves on to Jonathan’s legs. John groans. Oh no. He’s not going to try to… replicate  _ everything _ , surely? He can feel Mary’s eyes burning now, as he’s trying not to physically react to the images. Christ. This is a horror movie. This is The bloody Ring, well -  _ a _ ring, at least. 

Frodo, no.

On the screen, Sherlock moves onto Jonathan’s upper legs. Slowly, he works on them, frowning in concentration as he moves upwards. John swallows. He’s a fast student. Why isn’t he proud?

Suddenly, Sherlock withdraws his hands. “The end”, he announces. John exhales in relief at this ending. No happy one. 

Jonathan sits up, face fairly red. As the camera zooms out, John can clearly see the outline of his penis doing its own kind of zooming against the fabric of his tiny trunks. Jonathan stands up to hide the boner of shame. He’s almost as tall as Sherlock. John notices that now, because they stand extremely close.

“Please, let me…. Do the same to you”, he says breathlessly.

_ Oh, I bet you would, you wanton perv _ . John crosses his arms.

“No, thank you”, Sherlock chirps. His hands are dropped next to his body, as if he’s a laborer finished with a day’s work and he would gladly stash them away if they were simply disposable instruments.

They’re standing so close together, and Sherlock seems so very much made of glass that John expects him to condense any moment now from the exposure to Jonathan’s hot breath. 

Jonathan leans in.

John has stopped breathing. 

On screen, Jonathan tenderly presses his lips against Sherlock’s, and for a moment, nothing happens. Jonathan’s oily body presses a little harder, a little more passionately, into Sherlock, and suddenly, Sherlock pushes him off. Hard. Against the massage table.

Like a startled deer, Sherlock blinks into the camera. Then runs.

Mary closes the laptop. “See, this is the kind of love story we want to show our viewers. We love it. The drama. The heartbreak. Sherlock’s hesitation, Jonathan’s awkward boner. God, even  _ I _ got a boner watching that.” 

She puts a hand on John’s knee.

“You need to make sure Jonathan gives Sherlock that bloody rose.”

 

***

 

The door to Jonathan Wilson’s suite is unlocked and slightly open, so before John walks in, he stops to listen. To get a feel of the room. To postpone this frankly irritating talk, surely, that too.

“He was clearly aroused, but then he  _ wouldn’t kiss me _ ?” Jonathan’s voice booms.

John frowns. Jonathan should just respect Sherlock’s wishes like a gentleman. He reconsiders. Why  _ should _ he go in there and talk Jonathan into giving Sherlock a rose? Sherlock will be better off without it.

“I’m too old to play games like that, Janine,” he continues. “I’ve been burned too many times.”

John hesitates. That’s a sentiment he can understand, at least. It’s not malice. It’s the scarring of a heart that has been beaten too many times.

“You have to keep him”, Janine says. As if he’s a thing to be collected, or put on display.

“Why? Because the famous detective is good for ratings?” Jonathan spars. 

“ _ And _ hot as hell, yes.” Janine’s voice rises, then lowers, like a flickering flame. “He likes you. I’m not supposed to tell you this, but when he does his confession takes, just him and the camera, he talks of you very fondly. His eyes are burning, he’s licking his lips, the whole shazam _.” _

John’s fingernails press into his palms.

Jonathan sighs. “He’s not comfortable with his sexuality. I shouldn’t have to drag it out of him -  _ they’re _ supposed to try to get with  _ me _ .”

“He is, in his own way,” Janine says. “He’s shy. I’m saying too much now, I really shouldn’t. But alone with our cameras, Sherlock has said he can see himself  _ really falling in love with you,  _ Jonathan _.” _

John has leant too close to the door now, and all but falls inside the room. He looks at Jonathan and Janine, whose heads quirk up in surprise. Then a light dims in Jonathan’s eyes.

“Oh, it’s you. Sherlock’s PA.”

“Live-in PA”, John corrects. He silently chastises himself. “Which means, I know him better than anyone.”

Jonathan Wilson simply stares at him for ten seconds. Then he turns to Janine. “Leave, I’d like to speak with him alone.”

Janine opens her mouth to protest, but reconsiders, and as she turns her back on him, John can see her smiling smugly. She winks at John and exits, closing the door. They truly are alone now.

Jonathan walks over to the sofa and points to a nearby chair. John sits, as if they’re doing a consultation, but as they’re both doctors, they’re not sure who should take the lead.

Jonathan plucks at his fingers. His nails are very short - he bites them. “Before we go further. Have you two ever…”

“No.”

“Never?” Jonathan’s eyebrows rise.

“We’re best mates, that’s all”, John says, trying not to think of the massage table, fingertips tingling.

“Do best mates always accompany each other on dating shows?” Jonathan pours them both glasses of water. Good. John didn’t realise it, but he’s thirsty.

“Well, they needed an on-set doctor. It’s a union thing,” John explains, repeating the cover he, Sherlock and Janine came up with.

Jonathan frowns. “I thought  _ I _ was the on-set doctor.”

“Yes but what if you get ill?” John asks. Why does this feel like playing chess?

Jonathan relaxes his shoulders. “Sorry for being so hostile. This show is really getting to me. I did it as a favor to an old friend, but I feel like a whole team of people has taken over my entire life. And to be frank, it’s rather scary.”

Unexpected openness. John lowers his guard, scratches his head. “I hadn’t considered that, actually.”

“In my line of work… In  _ our _ line of work,” Jonathan corrects himself, rather generously, “it’s hard to maintain meaningful relationships. I find it difficult, this sort of thing. And to do it on a national television show, it’s pure lunacy. I can’t back out. But I’m afraid now I’ll have to represent  _ all gay people _ looking for love, somehow. And Sherlock’s reaction to me kissing him… Well, I assume he told you about it. I don’t want to seem predatory on television.”

John is not sure what to say. “Predatory?”

“I mean, it’s just another cliché, isn’t it? I know Sherlock’s in his thirties but he looks very young, and I’m nearing forty and I look it. If I seem pushy, it could be bad not only for me, but for the way straight people see older homosexuals.” Jonathan sighs. “Also, I think I kind of ... like him. Even though he’s a git.”

He smiles, and seems relieved to find John smiling back.

“Look, I know his reaction to your kiss seems odd.” John tastes the words in his mouth. He must choose wisely, now. “I think he… might just have difficulty showing his feelings.”

Not a lie. 

“I’ve known him many years, and his love life has always been quite a mystery to me.” John is proud of himself for staying close to the truth, while not giving away their true game in this reality show. “Only once I thought he got carried away, but even then he kept himself guarded. He has always valued his work over his heart. So he might need a little more time. Until he trusts you.”

Jonathan nods. “The mere fact that he’s here, in this show, says a lot, I suppose.”

John swallows. No lying. No lying. “I know he seems unfeeling, sometimes. But he’s a lot more sensitive than he lets on.”

And if you hurt him, John thinks, you’ll soon find out I’m not only a doctor, but a soldier too. 

 

***

 

Jonathan deals out his roses until only one is left, and only two people still await his decision like he’s a high court judge. One, Phil, is nearly in tears. The other, Sherlock, looks so stoic John fears he’ll be booted on a whim decision. 

He knows the production has urged Wilson to keep Sherlock’s rose until the very last moment, because once the episode is aired, the viewers will be tweeting about the suspense and suffering. But Jonathan Wilson has already shown he has a mind of his own.

“Phil, you’re a very impressive man. But you mostly stay in the background,” Jonathan says. “In my life, I need strong people around me who aren’t afraid to shine, even when they’re in the spotlights, with their spouse. I need a man to stand tall with me on the red carpet.”

The giant man sniffles.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have suggested to poison the elephant.

“Sherlock, you’re a very clever man. But I’m not sure you  _ want _ to be here, to be honest,” Jonathan continues. Sherlock looks at his feet. “I don’t wish to keep anyone against their will.”

He holds out a rose.

“But Sherlock, if you’ll still have me, I hope you’ll want to stay.”

Sherlock looks up, a little struck.

In the background, Charles Augustus Magnussen secretly takes a photo with his cameraphone that he’s not supposed to be carrying. John rolls his eyes.  _ Newspaper people. _

“I realise our first date went a little awry, so I hope you’ll allow me a do-over.” Jonathan smiles. “Please, come to my private suite tonight.”

 

***

 

After the rose ceremony, John goes to his hotel room for a break. When he enters, he’s nearly scared to death. On his bed, Sherlock sits. 

From the open window, a little moonlight and the sounds of raging cars seep into the room. Sherlock’s face is partly shrouded in darkness. He’s still holding the rose.

“Well, it seems like they hand out copies of my key card to just about anyone,” John says.

Sherlock quirks half a smile. “Your room is right next to mine, John. As are our balconies. You should consider closing your glass balcony doors when you leave.”

“Jesus christ, you’re worse than bloody Spiderman.”

John pulls up a chair next to the bed, leans forward, clasps his hands together and waits. Sherlock fiddles with the rose in his hand. It’s shedding its petals.

“Why did he keep me?” Sherlock asks. 

It takes John by surprise. Is Sherlock…showing insecurity again? This is a tricky question. Does he know John saw the outtakes of the massage date? 

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“I’ve been here two days and I’m pretty sure that by now, he associates the sight of me with near death experiences. He was going to throw me out, I could read it in the way he held his left shoulder during the escape room challenge. And then… something changed.” Sherlock pulls at the rose. “Another chance.”

“Right.” John pauses. “Are you any closer to catching the would-be killer?”

“I have some leads,” Sherlock says, distractedly. 

Suddenly, he throws the rose aside and jumps up, walks over to the window, fidgeting. John doesn’t know what has gotten into him, but he seems like a wind-up doll too tightly wound, the moment before it goes off. 

Then he sighs and stills.

Sherlock lightly touches the sliding glass door and steps onto the balcony. 

“Goodnight, John.”

John rises from his chair. He can’t let Sherlock bolt to his room in the middle of what feels like an important conversation. 

“Sherlock, wait,” he says, and moves toward the balcony. 

Sherlock, who had been closing the glass door, freezes. He turns around, and leaves a crack. An opening, if you will, to talk. As if he doesn’t like to speak without shield. To be seen, completely. 

They’re both on different sides of the glass, and reflected in it, John can see both Sherlock and himself.

“I’m here,” John says. “What’s bothering you?”

“John. I realise we’ve never… talked much about these things.”

In the reflection of the window, John watches himself swallow hard. 

“This is perhaps… embarrassing.” Sherlock doesn’t avert his eyes. John is not sure if Sherlock can see him, or only his own reflection, from the balcony. “I’ve… Jonathan tried to kiss me.”

“I know,” John admits.

“I ran, John. I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, you don’t have to kiss anyone for a case, if you don’t want to. You can just tell him you like to wait for that kind of stuff,” John says. 

He wonders if this is some sort of repressed homophobia Sherlock is expressing. He’s never been like this before, he always seemed open-minded in that regard or at the very least, indifferent in a generous kind of way. But, John experienced some homophobia himself earlier, so he can’t blame his friend. Of course not.

“That’s not what I mean.” Somewhere in the distance, an ambulance siren cuts through the streets of London. Sherlock pauses until it dies. “I haven’t… kissed anyone.”

“What?”

A laugh escapes John’s lips, because it seems so ridiculous that someone like Sherlock has never had anyone want to kiss him, and he regrets it immediately, because outside, Sherlock flinches. John puts his hand on the glass.

“Sherlock. It’s fine. I’m just surprised, that’s all.”

Long ago, in Buckingham Palace, John recalls Mycroft’s mocking words. ‘ _ Sex doesn’t alarm me.’ _ ‘ _ How would you know.’ _ Back then, John had assumed it was just brotherly bickering, nothing more. Now, years later, the ugly truth of that moment reveals itself. Mycroft had twisted the knife right where it hurt, in front of Sherlock’s closest friend. John’s other hand clasps into a fist. He opens it, and puts his fingers on the side of the glass sliding door. 

He softly pushes it open, removing the barrier between them. Sherlock is pale like a china doll, one no longer able to hide behind glass. He stares at his hands, then looks up.

He’s all shadows and softness. Like a gentle vampire wishing to be invited in. 

John gathers all his bravery. He didn’t go through military training to leave behind his mates when they needed him most.

“Some general rules for kissing are… don’t rush it, take your time. Feel the other person out.” John’s voice is slightly unsteady, but he presses on. Through mud and battle and many wounds. Soldiers. “You don’t want to use too much tongue, at least not at first. Avoid bumping teeth. And I know who I’m talking to, but I’m going to say it anyway: don’t overanalyze it. Kissing is really about letting your lips do all the talking.”

Sherlock’s lips are slightly parted. “What about… my hands?”, he asks, shaking like a teenager.

John steps a little closer. Into battle. He lifts his hands and puts them on Sherlock’s sides, steadies him. Feels Sherlock’s shape, as if he could bend him. He’s completely rigid.

“Don’t be afraid to touch him. Like this.” He moves his hands higher, across Sherlock’s chest. The moonlight explores the nightly depths of his dark blue shirt. John slides further, until his fingertips touch Sherlock’s cheek.

Are they really going to do this?

Sherlock leans his face into his hands. His cheeks are flushed. He seems so nervous, it’s endearing. John exhales shakily.

Right. How do you show your thirty-something mate how to kiss?

John strokes Sherlock’s cheek, moves his other hand into his curls and softly guides his head closer. They’re between balcony and room, on the border, one leaning in, another leaning out. John closes his eyes and jumps - his lips softly press into Sherlock’s, and nervously, he waits. Maybe he has gone too far now. And Sherlock will push him away, just like he pushed Jonathan. He’ll let him. He’ll deserve it.

But Sherlock makes the tiniest, softest noise of surprise and presses back into John. His bottom lip slips against John’s upper lip, his mouth trying to grasp and contain and let go all at once. It’s a first time for John as well - the first man he’s kissed. He slightly pulls back to gather himself, to rub his thumb over Sherlock’s lips, gasping, then he moves back to trace Sherlock’s jawline with tender fingertips. They stumble into the kiss again, closer now, falling into each other at 200 heartbeats an hour. Sherlock lift his hands and grabs John’s arms as if holding on for dear life. 

John can’t stop grabbing Sherlock’s face, carefully feeling its edges with his fingertips, holding his cheeks in his palm, stroking through his curls, then moving back to softly trace his jaw again. He licks a slow stroke across Sherlock’s upper lip, left to right, and elicits the best, rumbling noise from Sherlock’s throat, who grabs his arms even tighter. Sherlock breathes, shuddering, then softly licks into John’s mouth. It almost kills him, he swears. 

John breaks away, eyes still closed, allowing the London wind to do some necessary CPR. Sherlock pulls back, gasping, wide-eyed, face unreadable.

“Thank you,” he says, and quickly jumps to his own balcony, back to his own hotel room.

 

***

 

An hour later, John is staring at a tiny monitor Janine dropped off, so he can watch Sherlock and Jonathan’s private date on a livestream connected to a hand-held camera meant to give this reality show a more documentary-like feel. Sherlock is wearing his earpiece again, but John hasn’t said a word into the microphone yet. What’s there to say? Should he just ignore that they kissed each other like silly schoolboys? That seems odd. Or should he address the elephant in the room, and make a joke about that kiss?

That thought makes John even more uncomfortable.

The kiss  _ was _ strange. Not really how he’d imagine a mate would kiss. He keeps thinking about the softness of it all. Those smooth lips. The unexpected tenderness. Could Sherlock perhaps be gay after all? John did enjoy the kiss himself, too, though. Doesn’t mean he’s gay,  _ everyone _ loves kissing. And Sherlock was remarkably good for being a beginner.

On the monitor, Sherlock is staring directly into the camera, brows furrowed in a pensive curve. An assistant is powdering his face. He’s wearing a tight Armani suit, with a clean white shirt underneath. It’s clinging to his chest so closely he might as well be in the Avengers. 

John looks away from the monitor.

“Don’t look away,” Sherlock says, on screen.

John looks up in alarm.

“You missed a spot.” 

The assistant rushes back with her brush, mortified.

When Jonathan finally gets clearance to open the door of his penthouse suite, and act surprised at Sherlock’s visit, it turns out Sherlock is very much overdressed. Jonathan is only wearing a red bathrobe, like he’s a gay Hugh Hefner or something. So much for not coming across as predatory.

“Come in, Sherlock. You look lovely,” he says.

Sherlock enters the suite and takes it all in, only moderately impressed. He must have grown up in estates much more glamorous. Seeing the clothes Mycroft and Sherlock wear, it’s not a difficult deduction. John is no idiot.

“Thank you for inviting me,” Sherlock says, repeating a script Janine told him five thousand times before they started taping. 

“It was actually John who convinced me to give you a second chance,” Jonathan comments.

This was not in the scripted version.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice sounds small.

Jonathan pours them each a large glass of sparkling wine. “John Watson, your assistant,” he tells the camera. “He said I should give you some time before you trust me. So I hope to now show you, that you really can. Trust me.”

Sherlock accepts a glass, staring at it intently. “John told you that?”

“Yes, he really is an amazing friend,” Jonathan says. 

Sherlock looks away, pensive. “Yes. He is.”

Sherlock takes a sip, looking into the camera. Janine must be cursing by now. The suitors are supposed to ignore the cameras.

“Between you and me,” Jonathan says casually, “I think he might actually be hitting it off with Mary Morstan!” 

Sherlock’s mouth falls slightly open. “Mary?”

“Yes. I saw her leaving his room earlier. How long have we been here, two days? Christ, that man has moves. He should give me some pointers, sometime.” Jonathan grins.

“Right,” Sherlock says. He empties his glass entirely. John frowns. That doesn’t seem like him, at all; he doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sherlock drink like that before.

“Are we just going to drink today?” Sherlock asks. John frowns harder. That seems pretty forward.

“No, I thought we could sit in my jacuzzi. I haven’t had a chance to test the waters yet,” Jonathan says, winking.  _ Yes. Actual. Winking. _

John rolls his eyes at the monitor. 

“I didn’t bring my swimming trunks,” Sherlock says, a bit unsure.

“That’s okay, just wear your pants.” Jonathan has already disrobed, and lowers himself into an already steaming jacuzzi with two drinks in hands. He stares up at Sherlock, with questioning, hungry eyes.

Sherlock visibly stiffens. John briefly closes his eyes. Of course. The scars.

But then Sherlock takes out his earpiece, and starts undressing. John is stupefied. Surely he could just keep his head above the water and still use the earpiece? John curses at himself. It’s not really like he’s been giving him any tips to flirt, of course. Maybe Sherlock thinks the connection is faulty anyway.

Sherlock faces the camera to undress. John knows it’s so the lens won’t catch the scars, but it means Jonathan is staring right at them. In the background, the man pales, but is kind enough not to comment. John is grateful for that.

It feels strangely intimate, watching Sherlock strip in front of the camera. Releasing those buttons from his shirt’s tight grip, one by one. Sherlock never takes his eyes off the camera, face entirely unreadable. He must realise the whole of Britain will see this? When Sherlock opens his black trousers, tight red pants reveal themselves. John frowns. Are those his own? Did Sherlock run out?

Sherlock lowers himself into the water, until only his head and the top of his shoulders are visible. Tiny waves hit his chin. He scoots a little closer to Jonathan, and grabs a glass. They toast, and drink, and Jonathan waits for Sherlock to speak. It’s rather sweet, John supposes - he lets Sherlock decide if he wants to talk about the scars, or not.

“I don’t usually… show myself”, Sherlock says, meaning perhaps more than Jonathan can imagine.

“Do they hurt?” Jonathan asks. Like a doctor.

“No, not anymore. Though they do pull at me sometimes. Especially when it’s rainy and cold outside. I’m like a living weather forecast.” He half-smiles.

“Can I touch them?”

Sherlock visibly startles, then briefly glances at the cameras. He looks down at his glass, letting the jacuzzi’s tiny waves crash against it. “Yes,” he says, almost silently.

Jonathan puts a hand on his shoulder, then slowly traces the longest scar to his back. He moves to sit a little closer. Their knees must certainly be touching now, John thinks. In Sherlock’s hands, the glass is shaking. But he’s not pushing him away, this time. He’s letting himself be touched. It’s an act of bravery like John has rarely seen him. Although,  _ brave _ \- Sherlock is refusing to look Jonathan in the eyes.

“Christ,” Jonathan whispers, in awe. His hand is still on Sherlock. “It’s as if  _ I _ have to seduce  _ you _ , instead of the other way around.”

Their gazes meet. Sherlock’s eyes seem shiny. Perhaps because of the candlelight. 

Perhaps not.

Jonathan moves closer toward Sherlock. The camera is greedy, as Jonathan almost closes the distance between them. But, John can see it clearly - it’s Sherlock who bridges that last gap. He leans into Jonathan, kisses him tentatively, and moves his wet fingertips toward Jonathan’s face. Caresses it softly, then moves further back, to his hair, as their kiss slowly deepens. 

John feels his stomach clench. Sherlock is mimicking the way John kissed him earlier.

Sherlock combs his fingers through Jonathan’s hair, then slowly traces his jawline, then back again. The tiny noises coming from his throat are ungodly. Almost like crying. Almost like screaming.

Jonathan’s hands are under water, still. They’re not on Sherlock’s face. John squints. Are they on Sherlock’s legs? He seems to be moving them. 

John’s heart stills.

 

***

 

When Sherlock opens his bedroom door - finally, it’s ridiculously late - John has been waiting in the darkness for nearly  _ two hours _ . He has climbed into Sherlock’s room through the balcony. Two can play this game.

Sherlock almost screams. John should have turned on the light, probably.

But John doesn’t care. He’s deducing. Sherlock’s hair is still damp from the jacuzzi. His unruly curls are an admission of guilt.

“How far,” John hisses, “do you want to go for this case?”

Sherlock has the gall to look appalled. He doesn’t move, though, still standing in his doorway, next to the coat rack and built-in closet.

“What do you mean?”

John moves up to him, until he’s nearly in his space. They’ve been this close, before. John tries not to think about it. He waves a finger at his chest.

“I saw you, Sherlock. You and him, and his hands were…  who even knows where!”

“What?” Sherlock stutters. “We only… No. Just... don’t, John.”

But John won’t let himself be stopped by some helpless stuttering. He needs to guard Sherlock’s reputation. Sherlock can’t do this whole charade. It will destroy him. Journalists will tear into him, like sharks.

He refuses to believe Sherlock would be so cruel, too. Pretend for a case.

“What’s it gonna be, mister my-body-is-just-transport?” John is almost full-on yelling now. “Are you going to whore yourself out on national television?”

And in that instant, Sherlock slaps John.

John is so surprised by it, that he stumbles against the closet. When he straightens himself, still dazed, hand shaking against its door, the closet suddenly opens. And out falls Bill Wiggins. He’s bleeding.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all your lovely reactions, subscriptions, kudos, etc. They mean the world to me, and keep me sane during this writing process. (Also: totally cool if you're just a silent reader. We're all balls of anxiety together here.) 
> 
> Head's up: this week I'm on vacation so it might take me a little longer to reply to your comments.


	5. Someone thrust-worthy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wiggins fell out of the closet. Sherlock and John are still in one. There will be some thrusting. But who can they trust?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've decided to start posting this story two times a week, on Mondays and Fridays. It will be super intense, but I think I can make it. All your lovely reactions have really spurred on my writing, and meant more to me than I dare to admit. 
> 
> Thanks a thousand times to my beta 88thparallel. Her suggestions have made this a better story and I'm forever in her debt.

“There’s a wound to the abdomen - incredibly fine,” John says, crouched over the body of Bill Wiggins. He can still feel his cheek burning from Sherlock’s slap. Though he should be focusing on other bodies, of course.

He checks Wiggins’ breath and wrist. His heart skips a beat.

“Sherlock. He’s still breathing.” John looks up sharply.

Sherlock looks terrified - even more than when he thought there was a dead body in his closet. “What do we do?” he asks.

In an instant, a switch gets flipped - from drama queen to doctor mode. John staunches the blood flow while Sherlock calls an ambulance. The production team makes sure the ambulance parks at the back of the hotel, away from any paparazzi - and soon they’re caught up in one adrenaline wave after the other. Sherlock’s room is swarming with coppers and they’ve been answering the same questions over and over, when suddenly, Mycroft walks in.

“I’m here about the closet case,” Mycroft says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and pulls his brother to the side. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Oh really? First, you go behind my back to appear on a gay dating show - pun not intended, thank you very much. When I’m finally over _that_ particular shock, it turns out it was not your grand coming-out party after all, it was all _for a case_.” Mycroft seems out of breath. “And look at you now, brother mine.”

Sherlock frowns. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“There’s blood all over your shirt,” Mycroft retorts.

Sherlock is unimpressed. “Do you know any good laundromats around here?”

John sighs. Not one of their traditional staring contests again.

“You know I’ll do the washing,” John says, hoping to break the tension.

“Shut up,” Sherlock fumes. Tension definitely not broken.

Mycroft frowns deeply, and looks back and forth between them. “May I have a word alone with you, Doctor Watson?”

Sherlock burns holes in their backs, as if it’s an unforgivable betrayal, while John and Mycroft walk over to the balcony.

There, John is having none of Mycroft’s judgmental staring. “Look, I’m just here because he asked me to, and-”

Mycroft cuts him off. “Doctor Watson, I am terribly concerned that I detect a coldness between you and Sherlock.”

John snorts bitterly. Since when is Mycroft the detective type?

“What? Because he’s rude? He’s finally back to his old ways, I suppose.”

Mycroft blinks fast, taken aback. “How so?”

“Well, after he came back… You know. He was acting way too nice, wasn’t he?”

“Too nice?” Mycroft grips his umbrella, as if it’s his weapon and he’s preparing it for battle.

“Too nice, yeah. For Sherlock. Suddenly he’s carrying groceries and cooking breakfast with freshly pressed orange juice. Like he’s going to hold a door open for me and suddenly I’ll forgive him for faking his death or something.”

Mycroft Holmes is staring at him open-mouthed. It’s uncanny.

“Doctor Watson,” he says, crossly. “I thought you of all people would understand Sherlock’s time away left him with certain… scars. I’d assumed you might have observed some of the physical evidence by now, if not the more … psychological ones.”

John startles.

Mycroft moves closer, invading his space. He growls. “Do you have the faintest idea what my brother has been through?”

John flinches. He thinks about those tender scars he tried so desperately to smooth with oil. He has some idea, yes. It feels like an invasion of privacy to be talking about it here, even if Mycroft _is_ Sherlock’s family.

Mycroft doesn’t wait for an answer. “I realise your sort takes a little longer to make deductions, so I’ll make it easier for you. Has it occurred to you that Sherlock is not _acting friendlier_ because he thinks it will make up for what happened at St Bart’s? But perhaps because those two years away have left their marks?”

John feels as if he’s standing still, while around him, the world is shifting, turning, changing places.

Mycroft Holmes looks entirely disgusted with him, and pulls back for his final blow.

“He’s not _acting_ different, Doctor Watson. He _is_ different.”

As Mycroft walks back to Sherlock, who’s talking to some cops, John stares at them. He feels like he’s been hit for the second time this evening. He watches as Mycroft whispers something in Sherlock’s ear, and Sherlock swats at him as if he were a fly. Mycroft simply straightens his shoulders, sighs importunately and leaves.

Because that’s how Sherlock acts around people who love him and try to protect him, John realises. He pushes them away, with sarcasm, with acting cold and disinterested, or acting out dramatically. Like slapping someone. And John had been thoughtless.

He’d just been working himself up so much about Sherlock kissing someone on national television, that it hadn’t occurred to him that maybe this was a big deal for Sherlock. This was only his second kiss, after all. Not counting the one with Jonathan in the massage room. Definitely not counting that.

But perhaps Sherlock had indeed softened during his exile. Maybe the beatings during captivity had failed to harden him. On the contrary.

And Jonathan seems like a good man. As far as celebrity doctors go, John supposes. Who then, is John, to stand in the way of their happiness?

“Well that went arseways on us,” a female voice suddenly booms in his ears.

It’s Janine. She puts down her cellphone and sighs deeply.

“Sorry?”

“It all went wrong, didn’t it?” Before John can agree, she adds: “Now we’re one suitor short.”

John shifts on his feet. “Well, Bill Wiggins might be one _spleen_ short, so…”

Janine crosses her arms.

“Yes, yes, and we’re very sorry.” She doesn’t even try to use any intonation there. “So, are you going to do it?”

Sherlock joins them. They’re now the only three people left in the room. It’s still dark outside, but the sounds of traffic have intensified, early workers driving and making their presence known to those who care to listen, like a rustling inside a shell.

“Do what?”, Sherlock asks, biting into an apple. Where did he get an apple? Does his hotel room have fresh fruit because he’s a suitor?

“We’ve only filmed two episodes so far, we can easily switch ‘m up now. Tell the public Wiggins turned out to be a druggie, was booted off the show and we replaced him with a willing candidate.”

Janine looks at them as if she made perfect sense.

“You’re not seriously suggesting... ?” John asks.

“Great idea,” Sherlock says.

John’s arm hairs salute. “What?”

“Yes, John, why _don’t_ you fill the gaping hole Bill Wiggins left and become one of the suitors on this show,” Sherlock says, face hard.

“Right, that’s settled then,” Janine says. She grabs her phone and walks away, making arrangements. Leaving Sherlock and John to their spontaneous staring contest.

After about twenty seconds, John breaks the silence.

“You want me to become a suitor.”

“No.”

“You just told Janine I would, you git!”

“ _No,_ I don’t want you there. But Jonathan might need more protection than I can provide.”

Right. Because Sherlock’s been distractedly chasing his own cock flopping in the jacuzzi water.

“Why don’t they just stop production, like sane human beings would do?” John asks, arms folded.

Sherlock frowns. “John, has it occurred to you that this is reality television?”

Smartass.

“And anyway, we’re close to catching him. I just know we are,” Sherlock says, fingertips touching his lips. “Want to know why? He’s panicking. He’s on my trail. I don’t know how, but he’s onto me, he knows I’m after him.”

“He does?”

“John, he put a bleeding man in my hotel room closet.”

“Circumstantial evidence.” They grin at each other, weakly. “But I can’t do this, Sherlock.”

John has never felt any desire to be on a tv show. He was fine being a sidekick, the conductor of light, not the one in the spotlight.

“Yes you can.” Sherlock’s eyes harden. “You’re not a homophobe, are you?”

When John doesn’t reply, Sherlock turns around and goes to his bathroom. John sighs as he hears the shower running. Time to go back to his hotel room and catch a few hours of sleep yet.  
  
  
***  
  
  
Sherlock disappears on John all morning long, and John is mildly annoyed by it. Yes, they might not be on ideal terms right now, but surely, with people getting stabbed left and right, it’s not safe for Sherlock to go investigating on his own.

John, meanwhile, has been feeling the desire to stab people himself. He’s been dressed and redressed by noisy costume designers firing off comments like “we want your boots to fit your personality”, “just be you but with a V-shaped neckline” and “seriously you were in the closet for ages and these are the clothes you pick?”

He’s also been prodded with microphones to record sound bites. “I’m very happy to be here, and yes, I do think I have as much of a shot with Wilson as anyone,” Janine made him say. And “Me and Sherlock have never fought over a guy before, so this will be so much fun.”

They had to do take after take because, John imagines, his eyes were channeling only a desire for the sweet release of death.

Finally, they let him go, and he’d frankly kill for a nap. But just as he’s about to enter his hotel room, he sees Sherlock exit the elevator. In the gap between the closing elevator doors, he catches a quick glimpse of Jonathan Wilson leaning against the back wall, smiling. Looking rather smitten, really.

They were in there together?

He catches Sherlock’s arm.

“Come here, you.”

John pulls Sherlock into his hotel room. Though a little startled at first, Sherlock crosses his arms impatiently.

John’s not going to mention the elevator in the room.

“Where have you been, Sherlock? I’ve been _suffering_.”

Sherlock looks him up and down.

“Wouldn’t have gone for V-neck myself. But I’ve been working on the case, of course.”

Sherlock starts pacing across the hotel room.

“Now, I managed to sneak Wiggins’ latest notes out before the police could get to them, but they’re mostly useless.”

“His notes?”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock waves his hand dismissively, still pacing back and forth. “He was my plant, of course, a longtime member of the homeless network. Let’s say the excuse that he left the show for drug-related reasons won’t be that far-fetched. But he was useful and slipped me observances about the other candidates when I was occupied elsewhere.”

John thinks about the jacuzzi.

“Wiggins... was your inside man?”

Sherlock stops in his tracks. “Yes, of course. Did he seem gay to you, John?”

John hooks a finger in his V-neck. How does someone ‘seem gay’?

Sherlock reaches into his pocket and unearths some crumpled pieces of paper. He begins reading out loud.

“ _Magnussen: creep._ Yes, Wiggins, thanks for that observation. _‘Cameras?’_ and then a question mark. _‘Connections’_ , underlined, twice. David: _left room twice each night, odd porn choices, likes escargots_ . Useless! Jonathan Smalls: _‘photography haha’, ‘hates reading’, ‘hates Magnussen’_ . Okay, but don’t we all? And lastly, Bainbridge: _Likes BDSM?_ He didn’t need to investigate that deep.” Sherlock sighs in frustration, throwing the notes on the bed. “I’m lost. I will not be able to save Jonathan Wilson.”

John stares in awe. “You like him, don’t you?”

Sherlock’s face falls. “What?”

“Jonathan. You really like him.”

“John, I just told you his life is in immediate danger. What I think about the man doesn’t matter in the least.”

John stares at his feet. Okay then. He remembers Mycroft’s words, and decides to push through. He bravely looks up.

“Sherlock, about last night… I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have...”

The atmosphere shifts, Sherlock stiffens, there’s a hint of fear in his eyes.

John hesitates. “I don’t want you to think ...”

How to phrase this? He doesn’t want Sherlock to close himself off from the world once more, feeling judged by even his best friend. John shouldn’t have implied that Sherlock was acting slutty, just for kissing someone.

John balances on the balls of his feet. “I may have given you the wrong impression.”

“You were perfectly clear,” Sherlock’s voice is icy cold.

“No, I wasn’t. Just hear me out.” John swallows. “I’m sorry I -”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says hastily. “And anyway, I still need you.”

John startles. “You … need me?”

“Yes. Teach me how to do the Heimlich maneuver.”

“What?”

Sherlock starts pacing again. “It’s not hard to deduce. Jon - I mean Jonathan - told me that the next activity is a lavish dinner at a restaurant called The End of the World. So they’ll probably organise a little drama, like these reality shows tend to do. What else is there to do in a restaurant? It will be boring television, unless someone chokes on food. Likely Jonathan himself. As a doctor, you have an unfair advantage. So, teach me the Heimlich.”

Sherlock looks up, almost business-like, as if they’re talking about a deal. John stares for a few seconds.

“That’s absurd. Why would he choke? Sometimes these dates are just about having fun. Not everything is for a case, you know.”

“John. We are literally on a case.”

Okay, Sherlock’s got him there. And they’ve been fighting. If this is what he wants… John might as well humor him. He squares his shoulders.

“Right. Stand still, please.”

John positions himself behind Sherlock. This close, their height difference is oddly emphasised. John’s nose almost reaches Sherlock’s neck, which is lean and smells faintly of roses. Why did he just notice that? Is this how Sherlock feels when he’s involuntarily deducing everyone?

John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s waist, who immediately tenses. John waits a few seconds just to give Sherlock the chance to adjust to his grip. At last, John feels Sherlock melt against him a little.

It’s almost like hugging, except someone is usually dying.

“When you stand behind them, make a fist and place it just above their navel, thumb side in,” John explains, cheek against Sherlock’s shirt, voice vibrating back into his own ear. “Grab the fist with your other hand and push it inward and upward, simultaneously.”

He demonstrates the movement, and thrusts against Sherlock. Sherlock’s curls bounce up and down with each thrust. He grunts.

After about five thrusts, John lets go. “When the bit of food is ejected from their mouth, let go. They should be able to breathe on their own again.”

Sherlock turns around, pale. John is not entirely sure Sherlock’s breathing on his own, now.  


***  
  
  
“Welcome to the End of the World Restaurant,” Mary says for the umpteenth time into a camera chasing her face.

They’re all seated at a large table in an apocalypse-themed restaurant. The walls are decorated with pictures of destruction and posters of the movie ‘2012’, and on the menu there are lava cakes, tongue twisters and ‘apocalypse bowls’. Lovely, John thinks. This perfectly sets the mood for _wanting to die_.

Jonathan Wilson sits at the end of the table, flanked on each side by David and Sherlock. John made sure to sit on Sherlock’s right side, so he can help him if he needs it. Across from him, Magnussen is smirking. Opposite Wilson, awkwardly close together, sit Jonathan Smalls and Stephen Bainbridge.

Though they’ve told the other suitors the official story - that Wiggins was sent home after a drug overdose - there are rumours going around about what really happened. They’re not even hiding their whispers around the table, as they shoot John and Sherlock nasty, accusatory looks.

While the cameras change positions again, Janine puts her hands on Sherlock and John’s shoulders as she addresses the group.

“Whatever you do here, do not eat. The chewing sounds mess with your microphones.”

“But what if I’m hungry,” Magnussen says.

“I’m not hungry,” Sherlock shoots back, as if it’s a competition. (Well. It is.)

“You get to eat after this date. The better you behave, the sooner we wrap this up and you get your fill,” Janine says. “Just move around the food on your plate a little, to suggest you’re actually eating. And don’t you worry. You _are_ allowed to drink.”

They have sorrow to drown indeed. When the exquisitely smelling roast beef arrives, John stares sadly at his plate.

David, however, takes matters into his own hands.

“Before we eat, I’d like to pray over and bless this food,” he says.

John bites his tongue. If there was a god, he’d let them eat.

Jonathan Wilson looks surprised. “I didn’t know you were religious?”

“I’m just very shy about it,” David says, surrounded by cameras. “It’s very personal to me.”

He grabs Wilson’s hand, and next to him, Magnussen’s hand as well, to form a small prayer circle. John takes Sherlock’s and Bainbridge’s hands. It feels odd, not very British at all, praying over food. But it does make David stand out, he supposes.

When it’s over, David’s fingers linger a little longer over Jonathan Wilson’s hand before letting go. Their hands are still very close to each other on the tabletop, though. Sherlock stares at them.

“Why don’t you take a bite, Jon… athan,” Sherlock says.

John frowns. Is he trying to get Jonathan to choke faster? He doesn’t think Heimlich is on the menu, today.

David smiles, nodding at Jonathan. “You should try it. The meat is very… tender.”

David puts his hand back on Jonathan’s. This is chess. And David has moved his pawn.

“Don’t forget the pepper sauce,” Sherlock adds, while putting his own fingers near Jonathan’s other hand. “It’s… saucy.”

John raises his eyebrows. Bold move, mate. Bold move.

John does the only logical thing he can think of, now. He drops his fork, ducks under the table to pick it up, then while rising he casually lays his hand on Sherlock’s leg, on Sherlock’s other hand that was resting there.

You know. Between mates. To show him how it’s done.

In the background, REM’s song _It’s The End Of The World (As We Know It)_ is playing.

Sherlock startles and stares at his plate, completely frozen.  

“So John, you’re new here,” Magnussen tries to make conversation. “Tell us a little about yourself. Were you the stand-in suitor all along?”

“Well,” John says, trying to buy some time.

Under the table, he moves his fingers across Sherlock’s index finger. Slowly. Suggestively.

“I was - I _am_ \-  the on-set medic, so I got to know Jonathan behind the scenes, actually. When a spot opened up…”

Sherlock, meanwhile, has caught on and starts mimicking John’s movements on Jonathan’s hand. Slowly tracing along it.

“... I naturally jumped in.”

John spreads his fingers, cupping Sherlock’s hand. On top of the table, Sherlock does the same with Jonathan.

“Naturally,” Sherlock mumbles, his voice restrained.

“But you didn’t go through the whole audition process?” Stephen Bainbridge asks. He wipes his mouth with a napkin, covered in an ugly print of _The Last Supper_ by Da Vinci.

Under the table, John softly touches between each of Sherlock’s long fingers. Might be a bit much for above-the-table-work, though, but that’s for Sherlock to decide. Sherlock, for his part, shifts uncomfortably.

“I didn’t,” John says, politely.

“That’s against the rules,” Jonathan Smalls says.

“You don’t actually think I am interested in him?” John asks. “I am.”

Meanwhile, he flips Sherlock’s hand under the table and softly caresses his palm.

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock breathes, pulling back both his hands in one sweeping motion. John startles.

“Of course,” Sherlock says, and he pulls out his cellphone and starts typing.

“How come you get to have your cellphone on you and we don’t?” Stephen Bainbridge asks.

“Because you’re constantly on Grindr and I’m not,” Sherlock replies, frantically typing.

John knows that face, that close-to-orgasm type of gasp, those glittering eyes. It’s a breakthrough. What else could it be?

But quickly, Sherlock resumes not eating, keeping his hands around his fork and knife, making cutting remarks. After dinner, Jonathan Wilson goes on two seperate ‘dessert dates’, one with David and one with Magnussen. Sherlock disappears, and John wanders around the hotel for a while, tries to type a blog post, avoids Twitter.

In the evening, there’s a rose ceremony. Wilson decides to keep John (“I haven’t gotten a chance to get to know you yet”) and sends Jonathan Smalls home (“You _have_ gotten a chance to get to know me, but you barely talk to me. I wish you all the best though”). John and Sherlock take their respective roses, and retreat to their rooms.

Before falling asleep, John stares at his rose. How much more crazy can this case get?

 

***  


“John. John. John.”

As if he’s underwater, and someone is calling him, that’s how a distant voice enters John’s sleepy brain. He opens his eyes, and is scared to death.

Next to him, on his hotel bed, Sherlock sits. Fully dressed, staring at his sleeping friend like Edward fucking Cullen.

“Christ, no more climbing across the balcony, I swear to you…” John pulls up his blanket, suddenly feeling rather naked. Luckily he is wearing underpants.

“John, what were you doing earlier?” Sherlock asks.

A brief silence falls. “What are you on about?”

“Under the table. With your…” Sherlock swallows and stares at his hands. “Fingers.”

John groans. It’s 2 o’clock in the _bloody_ morning. Why does Sherlock feel the need to talk about this _now_? Can’t he go write about it in his diary or something?

Carefully, Sherlock looks at him through half-closed eyelashes. “Please John. It was…. interesting. What you did.”

John turns on the bedside lamp and sits up. The light, though dim, brings him a little more into the present. He looks Sherlock up and down.

It must have been difficult for Sherlock to come to his room once more, asking for help. He knows Sherlock has been trying to lock him out all day, even more so after Mycroft’s visit. One little Heimlich hug doesn’t count. Clearly, Sherlock’s still a little bit pissed at him for yelling that he’s “whoring himself out on television”. The last thing he wants to do is sex-shame Sherlock into closing himself off again if he’s trying to, very tentatively, come out of his shell.  

Come out of the closet, perhaps.

He lowers his voice, pours some gentleness into it. “What I was doing earlier, with your fingers, was the power of suggestion. Sex isn’t just in and out and that’s it. It’s playful, it’s trying out different touches, it’s discovering erogenous zones.”

Sherlock nods. “Right… Erogenous zones.”

John blinks. He never thought he’d hear Sherlock Holmes, the great detective, utter the words ‘erogenous zones’. He’s pretty sure that, whoever Sherlock ends up with, his partner will discover a new erogenous zone just by listening to his voice vibrate.

“Show me,” Sherlock orders.

Something in John’s stomach slightly drops. Or jumps. John is not sure.

“What?”

“I’m interested in what other body parts elicit such responses.”

Did Sherlock just admit to having a boner in the restaurant? John blinks the thought away. And away. He feels like Bambi talking to a rabbit, with all this blinking going on.

Though surely, it’s not a big deal, is it? They’ve known each other for years. And Sherlock doesn’t have too many people in his life he can rely on. John thinks back about Hannah from camp, whom he met when he was twelve. Back home, he had a huge crush on Natalie, his mate’s older sister. But he didn’t want to make out with Natalie for her to discover he was a useless bag of chips. He needed to be 100 percent _ready_ for Natalie. So he practised his kissing skills on Hannah at camp. And then on two other camp girls, too. Just to complete his education.

He can be Sherlock’s Hannah.

“Right. I’m going to need you to take off your clothes, then.”

Sherlock’s eyes emit pure terror.

“Except your pants, of course.” John smiles. Okay, perhaps he was purposely riling him up.

Sherlock quickly disrobes, down to his tight blue underwear, and puts his neatly folded clothes on a chair nearby.

John invites him to lie next to him, on top of the covers. “It’s not too cold in here,” he says.

“No,” Sherlock agrees. “It’s rather hot.”

John swallows. It seemed like a fun idea a minute ago, but now Sherlock’s almost naked body lies stretched out next to him, it feels very real all of the sudden. He looks the man up and down. Sherlock lies on his back, arms resting on either side. He’s open. He trusts him.

John Watson will not betray his trust.

He lifts a finger and softly traces across Sherlock’s collar bone. Maybe that’s not technically an erogenous zone, but he always wanted to do that. And it seems to have an effect on Sherlock either way, who braces, as if for impact.

“This is a very sensitive area,” John says, fingertips exploring Sherlock’s long, pale neck, which is so exposed he seems almost breakable. John moves to the back and rubs his fingernails along Sherlock’s hairline, then softly combs through his curls.

“Do you see what I’m doing here?”

Sherlock nods, watching him with dark eyes, unreadable.

John bends forward and presses his lips to Sherlock’s nape. Tenderly he explores the soft skin, while still rubbing his fingers on the back of Sherlock’s head. He sticks out his tongue, and very lightly, very slowly licks along Sherlock’s neck.

It’s only when Sherlock’s chest releases one short, intense shiver, that John realises he hadn’t been breathing.

John pulls back. “Right. The neck. Very important.”

That’s one erogenous zone down, then. Best leave the more obvious ones out of it, John thinks. Sherlock sure won’t be needing _those_ , for this show.

Not the perineum for example. Definitely not that.

John moves to rest on his knees, grabs Sherlock’s limp hand and pulls it up to his mouth. He waits, and searches Sherlock’s face, looking for signs of revulsion. For a moment, he wishes he had Sherlock’s deduction skills.

Then, John puts Sherlock’s thumb in his mouth, and immediately Sherlock’s entire face changes by dropping his bottom lip a tiny bit.

It’s amazing to watch. John sucks gently.

Something else happens, right then. In his own pants - why in the everloving name of fuck did he wear such a loose fitting pair - his dick remembers its own existence. Not the best of times, certainly. John feels himself slowly hardening as he moves his warm tongue around Sherlock’s thumb, hoping to god Sherlock won’t break eye contact and look down.

It’s of course nothing to be ashamed of, getting a boner in this situation. Doesn’t mean he’s into Sherlock in that way. If anything, this is because the whole set-up reminds him of his own very first steps into lovemaking, at the tender age of seventeen with that very same Natalie he’d been crushing on for years.   
  
A small noise leaves the back of Sherlock’s throat.

Oh god.

John knows exactly what to do: he needs to slowly lower his body in a different position so his hard-on won’t be noticeable. He crouches a bit and releases Sherlock’s thumb from his hot mouth with a pop. Sherlock breathes out heavily as John stretches his body next to him again and decides the next lesson is _nipples_ , definitely.

What were the other zones again? Ehh, hands, check. Neck. Skin… stuff. Much to cover. He shouldn’t even be thinking about the perineum, really.

In the soft light of the desk lamp, Sherlock trembles as John lowers his head.

“Some men have sensitive nipples,” he explains, and puts his mouth over his right nipple.

John might as well have shocked him with a defibrillator, because Sherlock’s chest puffs up in shock.

“Hmmph,” Sherlock breathes.

John lifts his head and blows hot air on top of Sherlocks nipple. He needs to hear that _hmmph_ again, so he takes out his tongue and sweeps it across Sherlock’s pink nipple in short, broad strokes.

“Mmmh,” Sherlock yelps, a little higher. His arms lift and he grabs John’s bare upper arms, shaking.

Never before has John wielded so much power over Sherlock’s body, and in a way, John enjoys it. Is a bit power hungry, perhaps.

He releases Sherlock’s nipple with his mouth and takes it between his thumb and index finger.

“It might feel good if you pinch,” John explains, in a slightly unsteady voice.

As he pinches Sherlock’s nipple, he moves his head upwards. There’s near terror on Sherlock’s face as John gets near it, but then he takes a left turn to his earlobe. He kisses it softly, then takes it into his mouth.

“John,” Sherlock chokes out.

Egged on by that, John devotes himself to the earlobe. Flicks it with his hot tongue. Meanwhile, his fingers pull Sherlock’s nipple a little harder.

“John-” Sherlock sounds near-panicky.

John ignores his pleas, and suddenly, several things happen at once. He bites very softly into Sherlock’s ear lobe. And because John shifts his body, the tip of his own traitorous dick peeks through the fly of his loose pants, and slides against Sherlock’s upper thigh. Its head, glistening with precum, rubs against Sherlock’s hot skin, for just a fraction of a second. That’s all it takes. Sherlock grips John’s arms tighter, and shudders.

There is no denying. Sherlock is coming in his pants.

John doesn’t dare move, not even his tongue around Sherlock’s earlobe. There’s no rulebook for this type of situation. A small part of him is too polite to disturb his friend’s orgasm. This is his fault, really. He should have taken into account that Sherlock has little to no experience, and is like a teenager in this way. In the body of a very adult looking, gorgeous man, perhaps, but still, touch-sensitive.

Sherlock grips John’s upper arms tighter, grunting, mumbling the last traces of his name, while a faint smell of sperm permeates the air. Then, the man’s body relaxes, and John slowly removes his mouth from Sherlock’s earlobe. He pulls back, carefully.

Sherlock looks absolutely mortified.

It’s okay, John wants to say. This is normal. God. He should probably stop touching Sherlock’s leg with his dick.

John pulls further back, and puts his hand reassuringly on Sherlock’s abdomen. But at his touch, Sherlock violently draws back, face contorted, and he nearly tumbles backwards out of bed. Quickly, Sherlock runs to the balcony and disappears.

Well, fuck. And to think John hadn’t even reached the perineum yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, next chapter will be posted this Friday. Thanks for reading! Hope you liked it :)


	6. A sacrament that should be taken kneeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After last night's... accident, it's time to get back on the horse.

At six in the morning, John hears a soft knocking at his door. He groans. He’s still in his boxers, so he quickly throws on a bathrobe. When he opens the door, he startles. It’s Sherlock.

“Thank you for yesterday,” Sherlock says.

“Ehm. You’re welcome?”

“John. As you know, my body is just transport to me. Nothing sentimental. Merely a device to get me from point A to point B.”

“Get to the point, Sherlock.”

“Teach me how to give a blowjob.”

Flabbergasted, John throws his hotel room’s door closed in Sherlock’s face. Not exactly the morning greeting he was expecting. Perhaps some room service would have been a better idea. What _is_ a good thank you gift after a friend accidentally made you come?

Not _this_ , certainly.

With all his breath packed inside his lungs, John stares at the door. Behind it, no more sounds. Good. Sherlock probably left, then. Hanging his head in defeat. The _only_ head that will be hanging around here.

There’s only so much John is willing to do in the name of friendship.

“Hear me out,” Sherlock’s voice bursts from behind his back. John turns around, annoyed. Of course he’d come through the balcony.

John glares. There’s nothing Sherlock can say, anyway. There’s just no way he’ll teach him _that._

It’s not gay if you come by accident. But a blowjob? Definitely gay.

Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay. John just isn’t, that’s all. Definitely definitely not.

“I thought you were bringing me breakfast in bed, not an indecent proposal”, John says.

“I’ve gotten my hands on footage of yesterday’s so called ‘dessert date’ between David and Jonathan,” Sherlock says, stepping over John’s bed in a frenzy. “They’ve been _kissing_ , John.”

When John doesn’t react appropriately shocked, Sherlock continues, pacing back and forth.

“David is _straight_ , and he’s only looking for fame. We can’t allow him to win this thing. Moreover, I just can’t be sent home now. I’m very close to cracking this case, John. The only logical conclusion is, I have to go to lengths David isn’t willing to go to.”

John’s nostrils flare. “The _only logical conclusion_?”

Sherlock’s gone mad. Completely bonkers.

Sherlock stops in his tracks, looking at John like he’s trying to deduce him. Annoying.

“As I said, John. My body is just transport. You know that.”

Yes. Transport sputtering to an unexpected sticky halt at times. John’s mind flashes back to last night, to Sherlock gripping his arms tightly, nails digging in, moaning, coming hard in his pants.

“Sherlock, I know that’s what you think but… sex can have unexpected emotional consequences.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Oh, please. How emotional can sucking a cock be?”

It’s just too early in the morning to deal with this kind of nonsense right now. Surely not before his first cup of tea. So John takes Sherlock by the arm, pushes him to the balcony and closes the glass doors.

If he shaves his groin and balls in the shower, it’s only because it’s going to be a hot summer day. And he gets hot easily.

 

***

 

John is just about to delve into two lovely smelling scones in the Landmark’s restaurant area, when Sherlock pops down in the seat across from him.

“You never eat breakfast,” John says, startled.

“Yes I do.”

Sherlock sips John’s tea. His plate is empty, and he’s not even paying attention to the ridiculously lavish buffet near them.

“How is Wiggins?” John asks.

“Still not woken up.” Sherlock says.

A grumpy Charles Magnussen joins them, carrying a yoghurt. So does Stephen Bainbridge, who has stacked his plate with as many different types of food as he could. He stuffs himself with cheese, grapes, and salmon, like he can’t make up his mind. David is nowhere to be seen.

Neither Mary nor Janine nor Jonathan Wilson are around. There’s a tired looking cameraman across from them to record their morning faces, though. If he zooms too closely, John might show him his morning middle finger.

“So, Magnussen,” Sherlock says, clicking his tongue. “I’ve been reading your paper.”

He throws _The Mirror_ on the table.

John nearly chokes on his scone. He might need the Heimlich after all.

All over the front page of _The Mirror_ , there are huge grainy pictures of Bainbridge and Jonathan Smalls, taken with a telephoto lens. They’re inside a bedroom at the Landmark. Having... a conversation. In depth.

Plastered over the steamy photos are screaming headlines: FORBIDDEN HARD-ONS ON ‘WILSON NEEDS A HEART’. EXCLUSIVE: SET SEX SCANDAL.

Unstirred, Magnussen licks his yoghurt spoon. “This is why people don’t usually make bachelor shows where the suitors can run off with each other.”

John tries not to make eye contact with Sherlock.

“Great for newspaper sales, though,” John says.

Bainbridge, meanwhile, has grown almost pale, staring at the photos in front of him.

“Doctor Watson, you’re not implying that I have anything to do with this, are you?” Magnussen says, dabbing his lips with a cloth napkin. “I am an investor, not a writer. I pay other people to pursue their dream of journalism. In any case, I haven’t been at the editorial office but I’ve been here all along, filming this show, and I can assure you, I have not been standing outside Bainbridge’s room at night with a camera.”

Bainbridge has gone from pale to crimson red now. He stands up at once and points his blunt butter knife at Magnussen.

“You! You did this to me!” he says. “You’re trying to eliminate the competition by… by cheating!”

Magnussen doesn’t bat an eye. “Cheating? Nobody forced you to let Jonathan Smalls stab you with his meat dagger.”

Bainbridge lowers his knife, looking struck. He looks up, seems to latch onto something in the distance, and quickly grabs the paper, puts it on his chair and sits on it.

Just in time. Jonathan has arrived, and takes a seat at the table’s end, between Bainbridge and Magnussen. His back is to the camera. He seems tense, and angry. He stares at the middle of the table, where the newspaper was. Nobody dares to say a word.

John swallows. Is Jonathan about to throw Bainbridge out during breakfast? There’s only one camera present, though. And the cameraman is making no effort to include Jonathan’s face in his shot. Doesn’t seem like something they would be this sloppy about.

Sherlock, apparently, deems it an appropriate time to reach into the back of his trousers, and uncover a banana.

John quirks his eyebrows.

“I suppose you’ve all seen the article by now,” Jonathan starts.

Slowly, undisturbed, Sherlock peels the banana.

“I can assure you, it was rather unpleasant to be woken up by production for that reason,” Jonathan continues. “It’s also very tedious to have to ignore journalists calling you every ten minutes.”

He looks at Magnussen, who pulls a face close to sympathetic, but not quite.

Sherlock looks briefly at John and then at Jonathan. He puts his lips around the tip of the banana. John nearly spills his tea. What on earth is that madman playing at?

“However, we can’t afford to lose any more suitors at this point in the game,” Jonathan says.

Bainbridge relaxes his shoulders slightly.

John stares as Sherlock removes the banana from his mouth. It’s still bloody intact.

“So today’s activities will go as planned. Every current suitor will attend the date.” Jonathan looks at everyone’s face, one by one.

Sherlock takes the opportunity to put his plump lips around the banana again.

John puts down his cup of tea. It shakes on its saucer. Hell. Sherlock is milking that banana for all it’s fucking worth.

Finally, Sherlock bites down and pulls back, innocently chewing the cursed fruit.

Jonathan rises and leaves the restaurant without looking twice at the buffet. John can relate. He, too, is not hungry anymore.

 

***

 

The group date takes place in Hyde Park. The contestants stand patiently in the hot, blazing sun while Janine runs around cursing at camera operators, Jonathan is being powdered excessively and in the background of it all, three horses stand waiting. Waiting, and pooping.

John expected things might get heated today. Though he didn’t think it would be horseshit.

David is openly retching by the time the intro starts.

“Welcome to Hyde Park, dear suitors,” Mary says. She’s standing next to Jonathan, and in her hand, she’s holding a whip.

John catches Sherlock staring at it, a tiny frown forming between his brows. John winces. He hopes they’re not supposed to use the whip on the horses.

“Doctor Wilson has always been rather fond of horseback riding, so he’s here to introduce you to his hobby.” She smiles at them.

Next to him, David bows to John. “She looks so hot today, doesn’t she? God, she could turn a queer.”

John throws him a look.

“You might have noticed there are six riders, but only three horses,” Mary continues.

Behind him, John hears Magnussen quietly groan.

“We’re going to pair you up to ride the horses together.”

Oh. So that’s why Bainbridge could stay for now. They needed an even number today.

“Now,” Mary turns to Jonathan, “you get first pick, of course. Who would you like to get back on your horse with? Who might be your prince on a white horse? Who whips up your enthusiasm?”

He waits patiently for her to finish all her puns.

“Who might lift you up where you belong - back in the saddle? Who will you take the reins with?”

She pauses, Jonathan opens his mouth. “Sherlock,” he says quickly, before she can continue beating a dead horse. “Will you please join me for a ride?”

 _Yes, I bet you would love to take him for a ride,_ John thinks. He looks at Sherlock who, good god, really put in the effort today. They’ve all dressed appropriately for the occasion, but Sherlock looks like he’s about to take prince William on a stroll through the Queen’s back garden. Beige breeches, tall fancy hunting boots that hug his calf almost up to his knee, a tight white polo covered by a blue riding jacket that’s longer in the back: Sherlock looks like he raided an expensive equestrian clothing store.

John gawks at him. Bloody posh boy.

He misses the rest of Mary’s explanations, until Magnussen puts his hand on the small of his back.

“Looks like you’re my damsel in distress today,” Magnussen says.

Bainbridge and David have already mounted their horse, a brown mare with a tortured look on her face. Horses are really not meant to be ridden by two people. But, John supposes, it looks romantic on camera.

Or tense, in the case of suitors having to pair up with each other.

While Magnussen pushes him up into the pillion saddle, John glances over at Sherlock and Jonathan. They’re busy mounting their horse, a beautiful white animal. They both look straight out of a fairy tale. Jonathan has his hands on Sherlock’s hips, and helps him up. Then, Jonathan positions himself behind Sherlock, resting his hands on his sides, to hold on. Sherlock startles, but then relaxes, allows him the intimacy. Like a wild horse submitting. The cameras lap it up.

Meanwhile, Magnussen lowers himself in the saddle too, behind John. He takes the reins, and rests his chin on John’s shoulder.

“Don’t be alarmed, I have a lot of experience taming horses,” he says, and pricks the horse’s side with his heel. It starts following the other two horses, reluctantly.

Soon, the three horses are walking next to each other, with Jonathan and Sherlock’s horse in the middle. Behind them and in front of them, cameramen in golf carts follow them. It feels very awkward, and very forced. Magnussen is eerily quiet, behind John. Holding the reins tightly.

John glances sideways. Wilson is steadily bumping into Sherlock, following the horse’s pace. But their humping is a lot more pronounced than the way Magnussen is bumping against John. Sherlock is smiling.

Don’t they realise they’re being filmed, for fuck’s sake?

John clears his throat.

“I see you keep looking at him,” Magnussen suddenly says uncomfortably close to John’s ear, careful to keep his voice low so the microphones won’t pick up what he’s saying.

John snaps his eyes to the front.

“You know you should be looking at the other one,” Magnussen continues.

John’s back straightens. They sit very close, almost intimately so. It must look cosy, to the cameras.

“Don’t speak. Just listen,” Magnussen whispers. “I know what you two have been up to.”

Magnussen’s tongue slightly traces John’s earlobe. Is he imagining this? A cold chill runs down John’s spine. His stomach turns.

“Look how you care about Sherlock Holmes.”

John glances at Sherlock. Did Wilson just… put his thumb between Sherlock’s trousers and belly? He sees a flash of milky white skin. Magnussen continues talking. It makes John shiver with disgust.

“You would care if it was exposed, wouldn’t you? Don’t speak, hold still, just nod.”

John isn’t about to nod for him.

“Look at him. Really look at him. He’s happy, isn’t he?”

John looks at Sherlock and Jonathan, riding close together. Jonathan is whispering in Sherlock’s ear. His curls are waving in the wind. Sunlight is falling on his face, or, in a way, it is shining from it. He does. Seem happy. John supposes.

Magnussen’s right hand slips under John’s polo, touching his T-shirt.

“Do you understand now, Doctor Watson? During the next rose ceremony, when Jonathan is about to boot Bainbridge, you’re going to step up and tell them you’re quitting the competition. Then you’ll go home, back to Baker Street. Just leave Sherlock here, alone.”

John frowns. Why would Magnussen want that?

He looks at Sherlock. Would _he_ want that? Sherlock is absentmindedly touching Jonathan’s fingers on his trousers. They look great together. Two beautiful people.

Sherlock did ask him for blowjob lessons this morning. And even if he played it off as ‘body just being transport’, John knows him too well to really buy into that. When Sherlock kissed Jonathan in the jacuzzi, there was real emotion on his face, it was more than just pretending for telly. This can’t be about double-crossing a wanker like David. Jonathan Wilson has touched a nerve in Sherlock, awakened a longing of sorts, and Sherlock would clearly like to explore that - safely.

It must be difficult to be a virgin in your thirties, after all. People expect you to be fully skilled by then, especially in the gay community, John reckons. And for Sherlock it is perhaps even harder. For Sherlock, who is so proud of his mind being greater than anyone’s, it must be humiliating that there is something he’s an absolute beginner at. So, from a theoretical point of view, he can understand Sherlock’s morning request, however clumsily phrased.

He shouldn’t have reacted so harshly.

John frowns. Still, doing the teaching himself feels like a step too far. Can’t they just watch a video together?

Next to him, Sherlock is rubbing his body against Jonathan’s, each time the horse moves. He’s holding out his bloody arse for Jonathan to take, it seems.

But anyway, hadn’t John and Sherlock already crossed a line last night? Would a lesson in fellatio really be that much worse?

Suddenly, a gunshot rings out.

David and Bainbridge’s horse rears in distress, throwing off David. Meanwhile, Sherlock and John’s horses take off running, fast.

The cameramen don’t know whether to stay or to follow. Whether to be scared or to be excited.

John glances over to Sherlock. The posh git has taken over the reins and is concentrating on guiding and calming his horse, while Jonathan grips him firmly from behind. Sherlock is talking in a steady voice, to the horse, though John can’t hear what he’s saying.

Of course Sherlock would know how to ride, his family probably owned horses. He looks, for the lack of a better word, knightly.

And Jonathan, frightened but smiling, wraps his arms around him tighter.

Behind John, Magnussen has taken a tight grip on the reins and keeps up with Sherlock’s horse expertly, all while pushing into the horse’s sides with the tips of his shoes, in complete control.

Together, they ride back to the Hyde Park Stables, where all four of them safely dismount. Sherlock looks flushed, and more alive than ever. Inappropriately excited for having been shot at.

They’ve barely had time to process the events, when Janine rushes over. “I’m so sorry, lads, apparently some kids were playing with an airgun in the bushes just now.”

John frowns.

“But that was exciting, wasn’t it?” She winks.

While they’re waiting, the stable’s owner brings a basket of fruit.

“Here, boys,” she smiles into the camera. “Complimentary of the Hyde Park Stables.”

“Thank you,” Jonathan says, accepting the basket.

Magnussen takes an apple. John takes nothing.

“I love grapes,” Sherlock says, smiling at Jonathan. “Give me one?”

Even though the grapes aren’t for him, John’s mouth falls open.

The green grape puffs when it’s ripped from the bunch. A feeling John can relate to. Magnussen watches him, a tight-lipped smile on his face.

Jonathan holds the grape near Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock wraps his lips around the grape, just a little too far, lingering on Jonathan’s fingers just a little too long.

 

***

 

By the time Bainbridge and David appear in the distance, it’s been too many fucking grapes for John to handle. David, however, is limping - playing up the severity of a definitely not broken ankle - and Jonathan runs over, eager cameras in his wake.

John gestures at Sherlock. They need to have a thorough talk about this. They walk into the main building of the Hyde Park Stables, and look for a private spot. They stumble inside an office, all wood and very much horse-themed, with saddles hanging from the walls, and an insane amount of decorative riding crops.

“What do you think you’re doing out there?” John asks, fuming.

Sherlock leans against the large, oak desk in the middle of the office. There’s still an outdoorsy blush on Sherlock’s cheeks, but he’s no longer grinning like a schoolboy.

John breathes, moving closer. “Sucking a bloke’s fingers on television? What are you thinking?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply, but stares at John’s outstretched index finger. John sighs deeply. He can’t believe Sherlock has manipulated him into this.

“If you still want that blowjob lesson, I’ll teach you, but please, Sherlock… stop gagging for it on camera.”

Sherlock carefully nods. While looking him straight in the eyes, Sherlock wriggles his left hand down in the tight spot between them. Slowly, he pulls down John’s zipper, not even batting an eyelid.

“What?” John startles. “You’re not seriously suggesting we do it here, where anyone could walk in at any sec-”

Sherlock reaches into John's opened trousers, and rubs across his cock.

“Nkkknd... Sherlock…” John’s voice sounds hoarse.

Sherlock quickly walks to the door and locks it. Then, he resumes his position and languidly drops to his knees, until the back of his head leans against the wooden desk. His shoulders are stiff, in his beige riding trousers is the outline of a bulge.

Sherlock peels John’s trousers halfway down. His fingers are shaking.

“Are you okay?” John asks, suddenly concerned.

Sherlock looks up. Something feral lurks behind Sherlock’s eyes. Without breaking eye contact, he licks the head of John’s cock through the cotton of his pants.

The posh bastard is challenging him.

Time to teach him a lesson.

“Pull down my pants,” John instructs.

Sherlock swallows and focuses on the task ahead. He positions his lean fingers between John’s underwear and hips, and pulls the fabric down until just above John’s knees, where his trousers are. Not the time or place to fully disrobe.

Sherlock’s hands clutch the trousers, and he shuts down. He has become a frozen computer screen. He’s staring at John’s rock hard cock at his eye level, like it has just proposed to him or something.

Being looked at - really looked at - makes John’s mouth dry and his cock involuntarily twitch.

“You’ve… shaved,” Sherlock says.

“I always shave,” John lies.

Is it even any use lying to the king of deduction?

Maybe when you have him on his knees.

“Now,” John says, before he starts actually dripping. “You don’t want to dive right in, there. You want to… tease a bit, first. Yeah.”

Sherlock raises his gaze, eyes questioning. No smartass comments. Odd, how Sherlock changes in these situations.

John lets out a breath. He can’t believe he’s really doing this.

“You kind of want to have me - him - begging for it, for example by touching… the inside of his legs, his balls. By blowing or licking softly. You can use your hands, and your mouth. Again, this is all about suggestion.”

Sherlock looks briefly at John’s cock. His hands are still tightly clutched around his trousers, like he’s latched on and not about to let go. John considers zipping up again and abandoning all together. Perhaps Sherlock is not ready after all. This is all a bit much. Sherlock can talk a big game all he wants, it’s still very different from actually looking an actual penis in its glistening eye.

But then, Sherlock puts his mouth on John’s right ball.

“Mmmm”, John moans. “Mmmmyes. Now, move your tongue a bit over the surface.”

Sherlock strokes his tongue up and down, all the while keeping his warm mouth on John’s balls, alternating between left and right. He’s trying out different paces, broad strokes, harder pushes, all while glancing up at John, as if he’s inwardly making notes about John’s grunts, breaths, and other indicators.

John, for his part, doesn’t know if he’s even providing any coherent data there, to draw conclusions.

Abruptly, Sherlock pulls back, licking his lips and swallowing. He looks up. Like this is a videogame, and this is a task he has completed. He’s ready to go to the next level.

“Right, okay,” John manages to say. “That… that was really good. Now, _blowjob_ is really a misleading word. It should be called _suckjob_ , because it’s mostly about using a sucking motion with your mouth while moving your tongue around… But it’s not just about the mouth. Your hands are just as important.”

The tip of Sherlock’s tongue is hanging out, as he looks down at his own hands.

“While taking care of the shaft, you want to use your hands for additional stroking, or for rubbing… his…”

_Perineum. Perineum._

“... balls, for example.”

John’s cock twitches. There is a tiny drop of precome on its head, happy with anticipation.

“Okay, now, take my penis in your hand,” John instructs. Why is it so hard to say those words? (Why is it so hard?)

Dutifully, Sherlock wraps his long fingers around the base of his cock, and looks at it, almost in wonder. Like it’s the most glorious thing he’s ever seen. Lightly, he gives it a stroke, and even though it’s clumsy, it’s the hottest thing John has ever seen. There’s just something about introducing someone else to sex that’s incredibly arousing to John.

He feels a bit ashamed of that really.

Yet, not enough to quit. Oh. Not nearly.

“Right. Don’t just take it all in in one go, okay? Why don’t you start with rubbing the head against the outline of your lips, and taking it in your mouth a little in between. This will also…”

Sherlock rubs John’s penis against his lips.

“... drive him…”

John looks down. Sherlock closes his gorgeous cupid’s bow lips around its head and licks the slit. Eagerly he laps up every last bit of precome, then pulls back, panting.

“Mmmmmgod.”

With his right hand, Sherlock slowly strokes upward John’s penis again, and then down. With his other hand, he cups John’s balls while putting his mouth back over the - already glistening again - head. The warmth of Sherlock’s mouth combined with his apparent eagerness makes John -

“Ohhh nnnngggg” -

In absence of clear instructions, Sherlock improvises. He closes his lips around John’s cock and moves his head a little further down, then up again. It takes him a bit to coordinate, but soon he establishes a steady pace, while still stroking John’s balls. It’s too much, it’s too fucking much. John grabs Sherlock’s curls, and pulls his head back, against the edge of the desk.

“Good, good. You got the gist of it. Let’s quit while we’re ahead, shall we?”

John doesn’t think he should come in his friend’s mouth, really. That seems like a bad way to treat your best mate. It’s not proper.

Sherlock looks downright offended. He grabs John’s hand in his hair and manipulates John’s fingers into locking more tightly into his curls. Forcefully, he makes John move Sherlock’s head back to his cock. There, Sherlock breathes his hot breath against John’s glans, close but not closing the gap. Fucking. Tease.

Masterful.

There’s no stopping now. John nudges Sherlock a little further. He eagerly slides his mouth down over John’s penis, taking in more than before, almost touching the back of his throat. Surely, this must be too advanced for Sherlock? Unless he’s been practising? John imagines Sherlock taking a banana inside his mouth, all the way down his throat.

“Mmmmhnggggg,” John grunts.

While moving up and down, Sherlock changes the position of his tongue, as if he’s trying to mentally map each inch of John’s cock. The tiny slurping sounds drive John nearly over the edge.

“Yes,” he blurts, trying to remember the teaching aspect of it all. “Use lots of… saliva…. Like that, yes.”

Good. Only a couple of octaves too high. With one hand, John seeks support from the desk in front of them, with the other he grips Sherlock’s curls a little tighter. His hips start thrusting with Sherlock’s pace, now, short hard pushes. John squeeze his eyes closed.

The room is filled with the slick sounds of a throat being fucked. Sherlock stills his head completely so John can create his own pace, in and out of his mouth. John squints his eyes and straight up fucks Sherlock’s mouth, lesson be damned. Sherlock seems to be enjoying himself too, isn’t he? It’s not a class anymore. It’s recess.

With his hand, meanwhile, Sherlock moves from John’s balls to further back, placing a wet finger against his entrance. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Sherlock pushes in. Just the tip of it.

Since John is still fucking Sherlock’s mouth, he impales himself a little on Sherlock’s finger. It shoves a few inches inside him.

John’s balls contract, and he can’t stop himself, the second it builds it’s already too late. He comes hard inside Sherlock’s mouth. Even though John’s eyes are already closed, he still sees stars as he braces his shaking legs against wave after wave after wave. Sherlock keeps swallowing, lips tight around his cock, until finally, John stills, out of breath.

Slowly, Sherlock removes his finger and mouth. John lets go of his curls. He rests his chest on the wooden desk, eyes pinched closed, hands next to his head. His cock is still hanging out, pants and trousers are still halfway down. He’s too exhausted to care.

John hears Sherlock get up and dust off his trousers behind him. God. John just can’t bring himself to open his eyes and have eye contact, now. But he should, perhaps. Look at how he’s lying here, arse up like an idiot.

Then, Sherlock crouches over him, close to his ear.

“Stay still,” he whispers in a low voice.

There’s the sound of a zipper being pulled down. John swallows. He covers his face as Sherlock’s hand slides down his spine and then lets go of him.

For a few seconds, there is no sound.

Then, soft, fast pulling sounds behind him. Tiny huffs. It’s unmistakable. Sherlock is masturbating.

John lies completely still. He doesn’t mind. Class is over, but it only seems fair to let the student come, too.

Behind him, John hears Sherlock puff and grunt as he moves faster and faster, the slick noises of spit and precome getting smeared by the palm of a hand.

John’s exhausted cock trembles a bit at the thought.

For a short minute, the room is filled with steady wanking noises. Then, while pulling on his cock, Sherlock puts his other hand on John’s ass cheek. A tiny noise leaves Sherlock’s back throat, like a cry for help. He picks up speed. Meanwhile, his other hand travels down, forcefully pulling one cheek aside. Trying to get a glimpse -

John tries to spread his legs a little further -

\- awkwardly, desperately clasping at John’s backside, Sherlock’s fingers move a bit more inwards, just barely touching the edges of his asshole -

Sherlock loses it.

“Nnnnnggghhmm,” Sherlock breathes, as warm come spurts over John in victorious streaks.

As John lays on top of that wooden desk, exhausted, come dripping down his backside and a little over his entrance, there is one thing he knows for certain.

Sherlock Holmes is definitely gay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all your encouragements, they make my days brighter, they make me cry on the toilet, they make me wake up in the middle of the night and burn the sleep out of me with my phone screen. With pleasure!
> 
> To all the lurkers who don't comment or kudos for whatever reason: I see you, I appreciate you, don't worry. You do you <3
> 
> Also, this chapter would have been completely different if it weren't for 88thparallel's lovely beta remarks. She's the best and wisest woman I know, and I owe her so much.
> 
> Next update: Monday. Can't wait to share that chapter with you guys - it's one of my favorites. Though I hope you liked this one, too :D


	7. Get you wild, make you leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The suitors go dancing. Coming home is harder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small note. A few individuals said I should tag this dubcon. I (strongly) disagree that it is dubcon, but if you’re easily triggered, continue at your own discretion.

**6 months earlier.**

 

It starts with the knocker on the front door. It’s slightly crooked. John frowns. It hasn’t been crooked in two years now.

It’s almost as if Sherlock’s ghost has let himself in.

John shakes that thought immediately. He won’t allow his mind to go to such dark places anymore. He hasn’t seen glimpses of Sherlock in over a year. He’s coping well. Ella says.

Mrs Hudson probably just had a visitor.

John straightens the knocker. It keeps him grounded in reality. It’s a visual reminder that _He_ doesn’t live here anymore. (Not ‘here’. Just not.)

When John steps into the entrance hall, he startles. There, on the coat rack, it hangs. The Belstaff. No. No, it can’t be. He shakes his head. It’s not real.

It looks different than he remembers. Worn out. Filthier. Threads sticking out. John tentatively pulls one. His breath hitches. It’s definitely not a vision. It’s real, Sherlock’s old coat is hanging right in front of him. He swallows. His throat protests. He swallows again, and again.

Whoever hung it there is playing a cruel joke on him. Perhaps it’s Mycroft, here to play games. But why would Mycroft change the knocker? He always _straightened_ it, obsessively. OCD, Sherlock called it.

So someone else then. Maybe Mrs Hudson got her hands on it, and brought it home, as some sort of… gift? A sombre keepsake. Maybe she found it in a charity shop.

John brings his nose up to the collar. His stomach contracts. It smells of Sherlock, still.

He and Mrs Hudson are going to have some serious words later.

John leaves the coat hanging, and slowly takes the steps up to 221B, one by one. His arms feel like sandbags hanging off his body. He’s trying to be rational about this. But when he reaches his flat, his breath cuts off.

There is a note on the door.

 

_John._

_I’m back._

~~_Don’t_ ~~

_SH_

 

It feels as if John’s entire soul has dropped into his shoes.

 _He writes like he texts_ , is John’s first thought. Then: _He’s dead. He’s fucking dead._

John almost needs him to be dead because the lie would feel worse than death.

John turns the doorknob. It’s unlocked. And then he slowly opens the door, and it’s just like in the movies. Only, from two different sides it’s two different movies. John opens the door and this is pure horror: he sees his dead friend, pale as a ghost, standing next to the sitting room table. Sherlock, completely unaware that he’s in a horror film, has dressed up in a tight black suit and has filled the place with flowers. What did Sherlock think this was? Some sort of romantic Victorian drama? Everywhere, there are bright, white roses, cornflowers and Baby’s Breath.

John doubles over, as if he’s been punched in the gut. He holds onto the doorknob for dear life as he feels wave after wave of nausea washing over him, shaking his heart, bitter words foaming at his mouth. Sherlock, for his part - it seemed impossible - pales even more.

“You -,” John pants. “You died -”

He breathes heavily through his nose, counts to ten.

“- in front of me.”

 _In front of me_. It echoes in John’s mind.

Sherlock raises his hands, then drops them. He looks down. “I’m sorry.”

John shakes his head. It sounds just like him. The voice. The voice is better than any ghost’s ever was.

He strides toward Sherlock. These flowers, everywhere around him, seem like an insult. A memory of a funeral is stirred. A memory of carrying flowers to Sherlock’s grave, on Christmas, on his birthday, on the anniversary of their first meeting. And then Sherlock just waltzes in here, and puts these dreadfully beautiful flowers in vases, all over the table, on the chairs, on the floor. John kicks a vase filled with white roses. It shatters against the fireplace. Sherlock winces.

He winces, but doesn’t hold up his arms as John approaches him fast. He looks sad, and very much _not dead, not dead not dead not dead_

John halts inches from him. He can’t touch him. That would make it real.

“ _I’m sorry?_ That’s not enough. That’s never going to be enough,” he says, voice rising.

He stands so close, he watches every detail of it happen on Sherlock’s face. First, the drop of a bottom lip, just slightly. Then, the crumpling of his nose. The long fall of Sherlock’s adam’s apple. And finally, seeking a fast death, the trace of a single tear to his lips.

And it’s unfair. Sherlock doesn’t get to cry. He doesn’t, he really doesn’t. He’s the one who left John alone, to mourn. Who told an unspeakable lie. Who abandoned. He’s the one who didn’t care how John would feel - would fare, without him. Those first months were the blackest of John’s life. And now, after he has finally pieced himself together - of sorts - Sherlock comes in here, and even worse, _cries_?

John hangs his head. He is angry, but he is also defeated. With one move. He raises his left hand to Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock whimpers, fighting hard to not cry, but when John rubs his thumb across the wetness, Sherlock breaks.

Sherlock, it seems, can’t say a word, he can only lower his head onto John’s shoulder, hiding it, where he cries. His head shakes, and he cries and cries.

John lets him. But he can’t cry. He’s holding his long lost dead friend and it’s the best day, and it’s the worst day. He can comfort. He cannot forgive.

 

***

 

**Present day.**

 

Before the rose ceremony, John quickly hops in the shower. It was a long, rather sticky cab ride from the Hyde Park Stables to the hotel, after all. He had wiped Sherlock’s come off his back as well as he could, but still. If he could smell it, couldn’t everyone in that bloody cab? Luckily, Jonathan had taken a ride with production. Still, with Magnussen’s sweaty hands and the unsavory remainders of the back sperm, he wouldn’t have blamed the cabbie if he tried to offer ‘em all some poison pills.

While the water splits on John’s shoulders, he’s glad to have the quiet time to himself. He needs to think.

John squirts some shampoo in his palm and starts massaging his scalp. The rose ceremony will start soon and he knows Jonathan wants to throw out Bainbridge for stabbing him in the back with Jonathan Smalls.

But John also remembers Magnussen whispering in his ear, on the horse. Saying he knows what’s been happening with Sherlock. Ordering him to step up and leave the competition.

John rinses out his hair. Why would Magnussen want that? He doesn’t seem particularly interested in Wilson, and even if he was, John is not his biggest competition - Sherlock is. Why would he encourage John to leave so Sherlock can concentrate on Wilson? Unless Magnussen wrote the threatening note and needs John to get out of his way so he can kill him without too much fuss.

No. Magnussen may be a creep, he’s not the type to get his hands dirty with anything other than ink. Definitely not the killer.

Perhaps he’s trying to get on Sherlock’s good side, to get an exclusive interview for his newspapers? By sending away John, who might snatch away Jonathan?

John frowns. That also feels off. A fairytale ending makes for grim newspaper sales.

Maybe Magnussen’s aim is to create even more drama before publishing an exclusive exposé. If this is a fairytale, he’s definitely a villain, after all.

John grabs the bar of soap.

Should he leave the competition, though? He really needs to think about it. That blowjob lesson - his cock tries to think along - felt different than the other... erotic acts they’ve done so far. _Christ_ , he chastises himself. _Erotic acts_? What is this, a 90s soft porn movie?

But he should really be careful. Sex can get emotional. What if Sherlock accidentally falls in love with him?

He soaps up his groin, still a little tender from shaving. And perhaps chafing, too.

Yes, John should definitely be careful. First times are important. He knows he thought the first girl he would be with, should be special. Didn’t care so much about girls number two, three through seven, really. But that first one sticks with you, doesn’t it? That’s why he waited until seventeen until he went there, with a girl he really had a crush on. His first love.

He shouldn’t take ‘first times’ away from Sherlock like that.

But on the other hand, they’re not teenagers - quick orgasms aside. Sherlock is an adult and he took the initiative for each lesson. Moreover, virginity is a ridiculous concept and rather overrated. It’s just sex. And if it’s sex with your very best friend, isn’t that a good thing either way?

He catches himself absentmindedly tugging on his penis. It’s already half hard again.

No, he should stop thinking about his first love.

And Sherlock should probably concentrate more on Jonathan. He needs to stop using John as a catalyst to unlock his buried desires and emotions. How can he build a good, trusting relationship with Jonathan and open himself up if he starts the whole thing off with lies?

If Magnussen prints articles about what’s been going on between John and Sherlock on set, it will ruin every chance Sherlock has with Jonathan. John can’t let that happen.

It’s clear, isn’t it? John needs to leave this competition.

John gets out of the shower and quickly wipes himself down. Then, still naked, rubbing his wet hair with a tiny towel, he steps into his hotel room.

And is scared half to death. On the chairs by the desk, Sherlock and Lestrade sit side by side.

“Jesus!” Lestrade yells.

“Jesus,” Sherlock mumbles to himself.

Quickly, John covers his half hard cock with the tiny hair towel. Angrily, he turns to Sherlock.

“You climbed the balcony with Lestrade?”

“You weren’t answering your door,” Sherlock says, as if that’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.

“You’re a copper, Lestrade. That’s breaking and entering!” John yells, walking backwards to the bathroom to quickly throw on his bathrobe.

“Oi! I’m the victim here!” Lestrade retorts, grumpy.

When John sits on his bed, hair dripping, bathrobe feeling not nearly tight enough, he glares at the two men.

“What’s this about, then?”

“I have some news about Bill Wiggins.”

“Oh lord. Is he dead?”

Sherlock waves his hand. “No, no. He’s fine. All drugged up, so he’s more than happy.”

“The doctors brought him out of the coma, and it went great. He could even tell us who stabbed him.” Lestrade pauses.

“Go on, Poirot,” John says. “This isn’t a detective show. We have a rose ceremony to attend.”

Lestrade scrapes his throat. “It was Jonathan Smalls.”

“What?”

“We arrested him this morning.”

John cocks his head and crosses his arms. “So we found the killer then? Case solved? We can… go… home?”

He searches Sherlock’s face for a reaction.

John doesn’t know how he feels about this, really. It seems they were taking large steps in the right direction. They’re closer now than they’ve been in the six months since Sherlock’s return. And Sherlock may have been finding love in the oddest of places: a televised dating show. Closing this case might mean indefinitely stacking away an old file that Sherlock had been on the verge of opening. The cold case of his heart.

“Don’t be stupid, John,” Sherlock says.

“What?”

“Detective Lestrade just told you himself: they arrested Jonathan Smalls this morning. Therefore, he can’t be the one who wrote the threatening note, the one who’s after Wilson. Because we were shot at during our horse riding adventure, remember? How would Smalls manage that from prison?”

John shakes his head. “That was just some kids playing with an airgun.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You were in the army. You know what a real gun sounds like.”

John opens his mouth to protest. He was a doctor, damn it.

“Jonathan Smalls did stab Wiggins, that much is clear,” Sherlock says. “But only because Wiggins found out about his affair with Bainbridge. Wiggins walked in on them while he was…”

Sherlock doesn’t finish his sentence.

“While he was investigating for you. Right.” Lestrade says.

Sherlock averts his eyes.

“So since someone shot at us from the bushes, does that mean it’s someone from production? It can’t be one of the suitors, they were all on horses,” John says.

“They could have paid someone to do it,” Lestrade says.

“Could it be one of the eliminated contestants?” John offers.

“Well, Lestrade has been keeping an eye on them,” Sherlock says. “So: could be.”

John frowns. “Should we… stop production?”

He carefully studies Sherlock’s expression.

“No. Mycroft called me yesterday with updates. We’re close. Everything is under control,” Sherlock says, folding his hands in front of his face. He looks up at John.

It’s suddenly so clear to John. Sherlock wants to stay in the competition. He needs more time with Jonathan.

John knows what to do.

 

***

 

David gets the first rose. He’s a thorn.

Magnussen gets the second rose. John is torn.

Sherlock, of course, gets the third rose. John smiles at Jonathan knowingly. He might be playing it cool, by only giving the third rose, but that’s a classic move. Jonathan is hiding how much he’s really into Sherlock.

 _Yes_ , John thinks. _I’m totally onto you, Doctor Wilson._

Now only he and Bainbridge remain. Bainbridge is holding back sobs already, silently shaking with humiliation. Janine has threatened him with about three lawsuits to stay for this charade.

From the sidelines, Magnussen stares intently at John. This is the moment he’s supposed to step forward and declare he’s quitting the show.

John glances at Sherlock. He’s caressing the petals of his rose with his long, lean fingers, absentmindedly staring at Jonathan. God, he’s really smitten, isn’t he? It tugs at John’s heart. He never knew. He never knew there was a volcano hidden in that cold rock.

“Please present your final rose,” Mary says, voice sweet. She’s dressed in all black, even her arms are covered, while her back is exposed. She looks like a sexy assassin.

Jonathan takes the rose and looks at the two men before him. “Dear John, dear Stephen. I cannot say this was a difficult choice, today.”

John looks up sharply. So he’s going the honest route, then. Bold. But Jonathan has never been a run-off-the-mill bachelor. He’s always stayed true to himself, despite what production might whisper in his ear.

John shifts his legs. If there was ever a moment to step up and declare he’s leaving on his own merit, now is the time.

“I was made aware earlier of the fact that you, Stephen, have been sleeping with another contestant behind my back.”

Bainbridge stares at his feet, tears falling. Where is his military training now? John straightens his back.

“Stephen. You’re so very young, and you’re still finding your way in this crazy world. I remember what that was like. I can understand it, and you are forgiven.”

Stephen looks up in surprise.

“But I do have to send you home. I’m looking for something real, something… forever. Maybe.”

Jonathan looks at Sherlock, whose bottom lip drops.

“John, you can stay,” Wilson says. “Please come collect your rose.”

There’s still time to refuse the flower, but John steps forward. Soldiers don’t leave their friends behind, no matter what. If they were really shot at earlier today, then more is at stake than just a reputation. What if John leaves, and Sherlock gets hurt, or dies? What if Jonathan dies, and Sherlock will have a lifetime to blame John for leaving and not saving him?

Doing things separately is precisely what always lead to to the most dangerous situations, John remembers. Sherlock shutting him out during the Blind Banker case led to him and Sarah almost dying, for example. Sherlock not letting John in on his plan to fake his death led to a world of pain. John remembers Sherlock’s scars, running over them with his hands. Not this time. This time he has agency, he has a choice, and his choice is to stay.

He can’t afford to get sent away.

John kisses Jonathan on the cheek.

“Thank you,” he says, and he licks his lips and winks.

 

***

 

That evening, the suitors and Jonathan go out together. It’s not exactly a group date, more like a casual unwinding. With cameras. And alcohol.

In each pub, Sherlock refuses to drink. He grabs a beer just like John, but barely sips it, making John feel self conscious about drinking his. Maybe it would be wise to stay more vigilant, indeed, and not become intoxicated? There is, after all, a would-be murderer on the loose.

However, not enjoying free booze, that would be a crime.

That definitely seems to be David’s motto, as well. He can’t stop his inner English lad popping up when there’s free ale, and the more the evening progresses, the bolder he gets. He hangs off Magnussen’s shoulder and whispers in his ear. He dangles from the poles in the middle of the Freedom Bar, exposing his belly button, giggling. He winks at a mortified lesbian nearby.

Sherlock is staring at Magnussen and Jonathan ordering drinks together, when Janine shoves a cocktail glass in his hand. It’s filled with a red liquid. Sherlock sniffs it.

“Sweet. Disgusting. Strawberry?”

Janine smiles. “You’ll love it. Have some fun. Loosen up.”

Sherlock looks offended and opens his mouth to reply, but she disappears back into the crowd. John looks at the glass.

“It’s a girls’ drink,” John says.

“Gender is a construct,” Sherlock replies. “This could taste vile, no matter your sex.”

He sips it.

“Speaking of sex,” David says, suddenly appearing behind Sherlock’s back and using his body to swirl between John and Sherlock. “There’s only four of us left, now, babes. We’re close to the prize.”

“It’s not a game,” Sherlock says, fingers gripping more tightly around his glass.

“One more rose ceremony to go. And then the final dates,” David smiles. He would seem amused if his eyes didn’t look so terrified.

“Should be an interesting experience to you,” Sherlock sticks the knife right where he suspects a wound. “How far will you go for this show, David?”

David’s face falls. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock moves very close to him, towering over him. “I mean,” he says, voice rumbling. “Will you suck a cock for the chance at your own talk show?”

Bold move from someone who only sucked a cock _once_.

David stands on the tip of his toes, trying to reach the same level. Or, stoop down to it, John supposes. He shakes his head. It’s like watching a cockfight.

“What about you, Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat?”, he says. “Actually, I think you _should_ let him pop your cherry. It might make you less uptight.”

Sherlock bites his lip. John’s fist clenches. The hairs in the back of his neck rise.

“That’s right, I can do my own fancy deductions,” David says. “And I deduce you’re a virgin. Want to know how I know?”

He moves his face close to Sherlock. “All the data show you’re an unfuckable, unloveable asshole.”

John can see a cloud move over Sherlock’s face, his bright eyes darkening at once, the corner of his mouth pulling. But he doesn’t fight back, he doesn’t even offer a retort. He just stands there, and takes it.

It makes John’s heart contract. Nobody talks to Sherlock like that. Nobody.

Bursting with anger, he pushes into David. David stumbles backward, and falls hard on the floor. John feels his fist itch with want, but when he looks up, he sees the cameraman smiling eagerly, going from him to David, to Sherlock, who stands frozen.

John needs to think. He can’t afford to get thrown out of the television show, now. It’s not too late. He hasn’t gone too far yet.

He imagines making David bleed. It feels so good.

Then, Sherlock locks eyes with John. He downs the red cocktail in one go, and pushes the empty glass in John’s hand.

Good. Good. Something else to hold in his hand, so he won’t smash David into pieces.

But Sherlock leaves him standing there, holding his glass like a boyfriend carrying shopping bags at the mall, and hops over to where Jonathan and Magnussen are talking. Then, Sherlock grabs Jonathan and pulls him to the dance floor.

Jonathan acts surprised, but soon falls into the rhythm. Sherlock, it turns out, is absolutely radiant on the dance floor. John’s breath hitches. Sherlock has control over his body and muscles in ways John hadn’t even imagined (well, especially after the erogenous zones class). Sherlock’s shirt hugs his sides as he lifts his arms, his trousers emphasise the endless length of his legs. He finds the beat, then seems to invent a new beat, and adapts flawlessly to the song playing - ‘Not on Drugs’ by Tove Lo.

_Baby listen please. I’m not on drugs, I’m not on drugs._

In the background, Janine watches them dance, arms crossed, smiling smugly. John looks down at the empty cocktail glass. O true apothecary, thy drugs are quick.

Sherlock, though not even touching Jonathan yet, attracts and repels his body like a magnet. And it’s sex, it’s dripping sex.

_I’m not on drugs, I’m not on drugs, I’m just in love._

They dance, and shine light into the night, and each time Sherlock steps closer, each time he brushes a hand across Jonathan’s upper arm, each time their skin almost touches, he quickly looks back at John and David.

They dance, and John knows, he will need to wait until the right moment. And stop this before Sherlock goes too far on television.  
  
  
***

“I’m not drunk, John,” Sherlock says, leaning heavily into him.

His arm is hung around John’s shoulder, dropping down slightly into his shirt. His hand rests hot on John’s collarbone.

“Is that your professional opinion?” John asks, searching Sherlock’s coat pockets for his room key. Finally, he finds it in his trousers’ back pocket. Sherlock’s eyes grow dark while he slips the key card from there.

“John,” he breathes, as they both stumble into the hotel room. “John John John. John. Watson.”

“That’s my name,” John admits, smiling.

“You have an international reputation,” Sherlock says.

He latches onto John’s arm, and drags him toward the bed. Sherlock sits on the edge, a pouty look on his flustered face. John struggles to maintain his equilibrium, but withstands. He starts untying Sherlock’s scarf. Let’s get this man to bed.

“You’ve been in the army,” Sherlock says. “Stop, I’m deducing.”

“Great deduction, Sherlock. Have you considered detective work?”

Sherlock pulls John on his lap and throws his scarf on the ground himself, exposing his long, pale neck. Sherlock locks his arms around John, keeping him in place. John hesitates. How intoxicated is Sherlock? He’s not acting like he normally does. But he hasn’t had that many drinks, and he doesn’t seem to slur his words too much.

On the other hand, he did just bloody drag him onto his lap.

Or is this their normal behaviour now?

“Shut up,” Sherlock says, even though John hasn’t said a word. “Listen. David is right. It’s going to be final dates soon, and what do I have to offer? No. Shut up. I don’t know if I’m any good… at anything. I’m an adequate dancer. But is that really an indicator? I need more data to sufficiently theorise.”

He puts his index finger over John’s lips, while using his other hand to rub up and down John’s thighs. John swallows. He should probably put a stop to this, now. With some difficulty, he breathes out.

“I don’t know if I would have the stamina or _rhythmmmm_ or anything”, Sherlock continues. “So please. Just let me… experiment. I know you’ve done this in the army. I’ve deduced it.”

John rolls his eyes. _Deduced it, or fantasised about it, Sherlock Holmes, you scoundrel?_

John should protest. He hasn’t experimented in the army. He really shouldn’t, here, either. It’s on the tip of his tongue. But Sherlock’s fingers are now tracing John’s lips, effectively making protest impossible.

One finger lightly breaches his lips, and John can’t help himself - he gently sucks the tip of it. It’s all Sherlock needs, apparently, because he throws him onto the bed in seconds. Aren’t drunk people supposed to be sluggish? Where does Sherlock get this kind of energy, or strength?

“Wait… Sherlock… I don’t know if we should…,” John mumbles.

Sherlock is trying to unbutton John’s trousers. John gives the button a little nudge. It pops like an answered question.

Enthusiastically, Sherlock pulls down John’s trousers and pants. He halts for a second at his feet, to remove John’s shoes, with hungry, impatient fingers. Then, he flops John onto his belly.

John could escape now, he supposes, lying there. From the open window, a cold breeze tickles his exposed behind. He’s still wearing his jacket, though, so that helps against the cold. And it feels kind of… nice. His cock would say. If it could speak. (A mouthful.)

He could leave now. Easily. And if he doesn’t, couldn’t that be easily attributed to the two(-ish) beers he had? He supposes it could. He is a little buzzed, after all.

Sherlock finally pulls John’s trousers and pants all the way off and tosses them on the floor. He crawls onto the bed, between John’s spread legs. John looks back at him. It’s an odd sight. Sherlock, fully dressed still in his dancing clothes and Belstaff, crouching over him like he’s a murder victim.

Cause of death?

Sherlock lowers himself between John’s legs and with his long, lean fingers, he spreads his arse cheeks apart. Then, tentatively, he licks upwards - one long, wet stroke from John’s perineum, until finally, his tongue grazes John’s exposed hole.

John whimpers. _Sherlock bloody Holmes, you’ve been googling._

Sherlock shifts, to position himself better, and his Belstaff falls open over John’s legs, like a blanket. Sherlock spreads John’s cheeks further apart, then delves back in. He licks the back of John’s balls, effectively touching John’s hole with the tip of his nose. John is worried. He did have a thorough shower earlier today. And there was a bidet at the club. He thinks there should be no problem. But, still. No one has ever been quite so intimate with him… _there_.

Sherlock’s warm tongue finds its way back eagerly and licks across the edges of John’s hole.

John wants to protest.

“Nnnngh,” is the sound of his protest song.

The sensation is simply incredible. Besides, Sherlock appears to be enjoying it just as much as John. If not more.

Sherlock swirls his tongue around, touching every nerve ending separately, it seems.

“Mmmmhhhh Sherlock-,” John chokes out.

It is unlike anything John has ever experienced. He knew his hole was sensitive, of course. He’s a doctor. He’s even had a prostate exam before. But this - this is like a hot sponge diving into his most private area. It’s almost a dirty act, a forbidden one. And the thought that Sherlock is pleasuring him there, longing to breach him with his tongue, eagerly playing with his entrance… God. John is rock hard, dripping onto the bed sheets beneath him.

Sherlock pulls back a little, panting. John can’t help it - he raises his bum, like a right slut. Chasing that hot sensation.

He can almost hear Sherlock smiling. The man rubs his behind, like he’s discovered a new moon (about to plant his flag), then spreads his cheeks again and lowers his head. In a circular motion, Sherlock licks the area around John’s anus, tracing every ridge with his tongue point, stroking every inch.

It’s so intense, John covers his face with his hands.

Then, Sherlock’s hot tongue slightly breaches John’s hole.

“Nnnggggh,” John breathes, pushing back into Sherlock’s face.

In a sure and steady pace, Sherlock’s tongue dives in and out of John’s hole. John almost wails with pleasure. With his fists, he grabs the bed sheets underneath him. He’s grunting, pushing back in a steady rhythm, fucking Sherlock’s tongue. John groans. He can’t believe this is happening, how fucking good this feels.

Then, cruelly, Sherlock pulls back.     

John looks over his shoulder. Sherlock is crouching over John’s body, reaching for the bedside cabinet. He opens the drawer, and takes out a half empty bottle of lube.

_Half empty?_

John swallows.

“Lube?” He says.

Sherlock catches his eye. “Stole it from Bainbridge before he left.”

Sherlock smiles, and winks. He looks stunning.

John buries his face in his hands. He hears the bottle being opened behind him, and runs his fingers through his hair. This is it. Is he really going to go through with this? This is, he can’t deny, going above and beyond what any friend would expect while asking seduction tips.

But in the past, he has had sex before, of course, outside of an actual relationship. Some of those women were his friends, too. Those friendships usually lasted past the physical aspect, or just withered because of his job in the army, with John always being abroad. Nothing to do with the sex. It was all fine.

But then again, Sherlock isn’t a woman.

Though, that shouldn’t matter too much, right? John isn’t a homophobe.

Sherlock pours some lube into his hand.

People usually don’t disprove their homophobia by bottoming, of course.

“Are you alright?” Sherlock asks, halting.

John looks over his shoulder. Sherlock looks breathtakingly beautiful, towering over him, still fully dressed in his Belstaff and with eyes glistening in the darkness. He’s like a vision from the past. John looks at him, and feels pure warmth coursing through his veins.

“Yes,” he says. “I am. Yes.”

Sherlock nods.

“Are you?” John asks. “Sherlock. You have been drinking, after all.”

“Well,” Sherlock grins. “I’ve been eating, too.”

And at that, he touches the outside of John’s hole softly, with the tip of his middle finger. It’s already a bit loosened from the rimming. Should John try to offer instructions, like the last few times? Sherlock seems to have it covered. And anyway, John’s knowledge of anal sex is rather limited. He’ll have to trust Sherlock on this one.

Or the research he clearly did to prepare for this, at least. And the lube.

Slowly, Sherlock pushes the tip of his finger into John.

“Nnnhhmm,” John says. His back arches, as Sherlock moves his middle finger in and out, just the tip of it, still.  

“Thank you for helping me with this, John,” Sherlock says, now abruptly pushing his entire finger inside John.

“Mmmhp,” John moans. Why does it feel so much like _Sherlock_ is helping _him_? His cock is full-on throbbing, seaking friction from the mattress beneath him.

Sherlock moves his finger in and out, while using his other hand to caress John’s balls from behind. He really seems fond of those balls, John thinks. Slowly, Sherlock traces a path from his balls down his perineum, then back upwards again. It sends a slow shiver through John’s spine. God. He never did ask any women to do this to him. He should have. By god, he should have.

Rather suddenly, Sherlock adds another finger, and John instinctively tries to pull away for a second.

“Sorry,” Sherlock says in a low voice.

So low John can hear its echo in his groin area.

He pushes back into Sherlock’s fingers, by way of apology. He’s grateful for his two and a half _(ish)_ beers earlier, sure they’re helping him ease into it. Helping him adjust to the awkward feeling, and occasional bit of pain.

He tries to relax. Insofar that’s possible. Sherlock’s fingers are really fucking him, now. Stretching him out. Sherlock is panting. There’s an urgency to it.

“John.”

“Mmmh,” he breathes.

Sherlock bends over him.

“Can I?” he asks, close to his ear.

John closes his eyes. “Yes, Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock removes his fingers. Then he stills.

John looks back.

“John… Would you… I’d like it if you turned around.”

John lifts his eyebrows in surprise. They haven’t even started, and already a position switch. He’s fine with it - with the idea of seeing Sherlock, while he enters him. Perhaps seeing his face contort with bliss when he comes inside him.

John quickly moves to lie on his back, while pulling off his jacket and his sweater. He’s completely naked now, while Sherlock is still fully dressed. John spreads his legs as wide as he can. It’s almost vulgar. His thick cock twitches on his stomach.

Sherlock reaches over to the drawer again, and takes out a condom. He quickly unzips his trousers and pulls them down partly. When his cock springs out, he locks eyes with John. Monitoring his reaction.

John licks his lips. Sherlock’s cock is absolutely beautiful. It’s long, and for a moment John is intimidated imagining all of it inside of him, but he steels himself. It’s doable. Definitely doable.

Sherlock strokes himself slowly, looking John up and down with pure, drunken lust. Sherlock puts the condom on, rubs it with more lube, and crouches over John. His Belstaff is still on, but there’s something erotic about that.

Sherlock positions himself against John’s hole. He rubs the tip of his penis against it teasingly, entering a little, stretching the skin, then pulling out. John groans. It’s pure fucking majestic torture.

Above him, Sherlock smiles. He lowers himself a bit and keeps one hand next to John’s head, the other blindly positioning his cock in the right spot. John puts his hands on the back of Sherlock’s neck. Their faces are close. If John wanted to, he could lean in and kiss him. Does he? Does he want to?

John freezes.

Slowly, Sherlock pushes in. Inch by inch. It doesn’t hurt as much as John thought it would. It’s a weird feeling, really. Yet… interesting. _Filling_ , might be good word to describe it. If he should blog about it. Not that he would. Could alienate his readership.

Sherlock keeps moving steadily, until he fills John completely.

Then, Sherlock stills. And in that exact moment, a cloud moves, allowing the moonlight to fall into the room. John stares up. Sherlock’s eyes are closed, his face is illuminated by kind moonlight. He has never looked younger, or more beautiful. Open, in a way. His bottom lip is slightly dropped, his cheeks are blushing. A curl falls playfully across his forehead. His features are soft. Then, the moment passes, the moon is obscured again, and Sherlock buries his face in John’s shoulder.

Once he gets moving, Sherlock becomes an animal. As Sherlock pulls back, and then back into him, harder, sighing with want and need, he touches John’s face and neck, puts a hand over his mouth, over his eyes. Sherlock picks up a desperate pace, grunting with need. He’s like a teenager, barely able to contain himself, wanting all of it, grabbing and feeling blindly. And all the while, Sherlock keeps his face safely hidden in John’s shoulder.  

John is glad of it. Because he wouldn’t want Sherlock to see his face, now. To deduce anything.

As Sherlock pounds into him more erratically, kisses his neck softly, bites into his shoulder - John’s face crumples. He wraps his arms around Sherlock more tightly, whispering in his ear, urging him to go harder, go deeper. He feels his whole body fill with warmth, with lust and tenderness all at once.

Then, when Sherlock puts his hand over John’s mouth, John takes one of his long fingers in his mouth and sucks it. It’s enough to tip Sherlock over the edge. John feels Sherlock’s penis contract inside him, and Sherlock’s legs twitch as he half shouts into John’s shoulder. It is with an urgency, with a passion, the release of something almost painfully hard to shake.

John wraps his legs around Sherlock to welcome the last contractions of his orgasm, then allows the man to slowly remove himself. Sherlock pops out, and John feels like he’s lost a part of himself.

Then, Sherlock rolls over and falls asleep promptly.

It doesn’t matter, John tells himself. It’s better this way. He rubs his wet eyes, then looks one last time at Sherlock’s sleeping figure - almost fully dressed, cock hanging out, mouth open - before he gets dressed and crosses the balcony, back to his own room. He doesn’t fall asleep for a long time still. What a way. What a way to find out he’s in love with Sherlock Holmes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta 88thparallel should probably get my firstborn child by now. <3
> 
> Also: I love all you guys. Thanks for all the support. It's been an incredible journey and I've learned so much.
> 
> The chapter title is from Lorde's song Liability, which is such a Sherlock post- Reichenbach isong. I listen to it so much I'll surely become a Spotify ad.
> 
> Next update: Friday.


	8. Bet you rue the day you kissed a writer in the dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pain, monkey business and dick moves. Basically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hear MF admitted to having perhaps read some fanfic. Martin, if you're reading this, my life will have been meaningful, and please enjoy. Don't be shy. Haha. Also: sorry.
> 
> To all you 'normal' (extraordinary) folks out there: also sorry. 88thparallel - the best beta anyone could wish for and I don't know what I did to deserve her - wrote in the notes to this chapter: "This is the moment I hand my heart over to you as the admission fee to this rollercoaster of a tale, and you look at me, smile, and place it right on the track under the wheel of the train. When I get back I’ll scrape it all up with a shovel and bucket and ask to ride again. HOW THE HELL DO YOU DO THIS TO ME?"

“I’m sorry about last night,” Sherlock blurts as John opens the door.

John is still dazed from the very little sleep he had. He’s only wearing his underwear and smells faintly of sex; a sharp contrast with the sight before him: Sherlock Holmes, fully dressed, standing tense beside a cart loaded with breakfast items.

John blinks against the cruel hallway light.

The words say ‘sorry’. The breakfast says ‘romance’.

(Maybe just his imagination. The imagination of an idiot.)

“What?” John says, scratching his head. He feels like he just got shot in the heart. He should be falling backwards. He looks at Sherlock. He wants to fall forwards, so badly.

It’s not like he’s had time to properly think about this. What it all means. But surely, Sherlock must have felt it, too? Last night wasn’t just a thing between mates. It was puzzle pieces accidentally falling into each other, creating a perfect picture together. It was unlike anything John has ever experienced.

John swallows. Perhaps that’s it, isn’t it? It was Sherlock’s first and only experience with sex, so maybe he thinks it’s always like that. It’s not.

“Sherlock, last night, it wasn’t... normal,” he says.

Sherlock quickly carts the breakfast in, almost hitting John in the shins.

“Of course it wasn’t normal,” Sherlock says, his back turned to him as he starts pouring tea. “You’re not supposed to be drunk. You’re supposed to last longer than seven minutes. You’re supposed to ... love each other.”

He pronounces the word love like it leaves a peculiar taste in his mouth.

Does he not know he is wielding it like a knife?

John takes a piece of bread and bites a large chunk off it without bothering to put cheese or meat on it. He can’t quite swallow it down. It crowds his throat.

“I hope we can still be friends,” Sherlock twists the knife.

He slowly turns around, shoulders tense, suit jacket hugging his chest. He looks majestic in the morning light. Sherlock stares at John’s fingers.

His hands feel like detached puzzle pieces.

John swallows his bread. What choice does he have, really? He can’t confess his love, it’s clearly unrequited, unwanted. John can’t inflict the burden of his feelings upon Sherlock, who would undoubtedly feel betrayed. He thought he could safely experiment, and trusted John with his body, only to have to deal with something as tedious as a friend’s sexual identity crisis.

And had it not been clear, all along, how he felt about Jonathan?

Jonathan Wilson is without doubt a better man for Sherlock anyway. Someone he doesn’t share a troubled past with. An interesting man, ten times the doctor John ever was, someone who can share the spotlight with Sherlock instead of standing in its shade.

John looks down. He has to be painfully honest with himself. Sherlock, after all, has been gay all these years. He never showed an interest in John. That should be enough to draw his conclusions.

“Of course,” John says. “Yeah, of course. You’re my best friend.”

Sherlock seems frozen in place.

Then he recovers, and drinks John’s tea.

“Thank you for bringing breakfast to my room,” John says, motioning to all the things he is not hungry for.

“Well. You were gone this morning, so,” Sherlock says.

They briefly lock eyes. Sherlock scrapes his throat, then walks past John, out the room. The door locks so quietly, John can’t stand it.

In that exact moment, his phone rings. John walks to his night stand. Who would call at 7:15 in the morning?

Unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Is this John Watson?”

“Yes, who is this?”

“Just one question. How long have you been shagging Sherlock Holmes?”

For a second, the floor seems to fall away underneath John’s feet. Was everything filmed by production? Are there cameras in their individual hotel rooms?

“What?”

“Did the massage have a happy ending?”

“How… Who are you?”

“Give me a chance to tell the real story behind these scandalous photographs. I can promise you a full spread and a cover story, and a nice payday to boot. I just want your voice to be heard in all this. Did he force you -”

“Ah,” John says. “Kitty Riley.”

He ends the call immediately. He should have learned never to pick up the phone for unknown numbers a long time ago.

John starts googling, heart beating heavily in his chest. It doesn’t take long until he finds them - the news articles, about him and Sherlock, all neatly sorted by Google. HOT TOUCHES IN THE MASSAGE ROOM. WILL 'CONFIRMED BACHELOR' JOHN WATSON COCKBLOCK THE BACHELOR? HAS WATSON SHOWN SHERLOCK HIS JOHN?

All the stories are accompanied by the same two pictures - screenshots of John showing Sherlock how to give a massage. Shot from above, by a security camera of sorts. Or perhaps one the production team put there? One of the pictures is fairly innocent, though perhaps not to Sherlock - with John rubbing his scar-ridden back. But the other shows John with his hand almost touching his ass. Enlarged and zoomed in, it’s rather grainy, so it looks worse than it was. More… invasive.

The pictures are everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.

Incoming text.

 _All Magnussen’s newspapers.  
_ _SH_

Well. It didn’t take long for Magnussen to make good on his threats. Should he have refused the rose?

Then, his phone beeps again:

 _Not sure about reactions. People on Twitter are arguing about something called Johnlock and Jonlock?  
_ _SH_

“Fuck,” John says to himself. He turns off his phone and starts pacing the room. That’s the last thing he needed. His own rejection - his own obvious want and need for Sherlock - to be publicly dissected and taken to polls. And once they start airing _Wilson Needs a Heart_ , it will only get worse. People will imagine it in every take, in every short scene where he glances at the man.

Not that they’ll be wrong.

But it’s his own personal tragedy, about to be broadcast to millions. Not anybody’s business.

Another knock on the door. Perhaps Sherlock, back to talk media strategy?

It’s Janine. She lets herself in, happily prancing inside the room, and turns to him.

“Officially, I am here to give you a stern talking to. Unofficially? You’re the man, John Watson.”

“What?”

“You’re going to do wonders for ratings, and whatever it is you’re doing, keep at it.”

“I’m not doing anything,” John says. Also: his asshole is hurting a little.

Janine winks at him. “Intrigue, romance, jealousy. Hushed whispers, forbidden touches on the massage table. We almost don’t need a murder anymore.”

“Murder _attempt_ , you mean,” John says.

“It’s all fine, John. The show’s sponsor is loving it. Anyway. I talked to Jonathan already, he’s keeping you around for today’s dates, so please, do whatever you can to convince him those touches meant nothing.”

John swallows. They meant nothing to one of them, at least.

“Oh, and John?”

John looks up.

“I’m going to need you to wear the microphone again during Sherlock’s private date time.”

***

 

“Everyone gets a private date today,” Mary says.

“It’s Christmas,” Sherlock comments, grumpy. _Jealous?_

The four remaining suitors are standing in a row while Mary explains the day’s activity. They’re in Chessington, a theme park just outside London that houses various rides and zoo animals.

“I feel the same,” Jonathan winks at Sherlock from beside Mary.

It’s clear the bachelor was pushed into this activity as much as the others. They keep having to reshoot the opening scene because he doesn’t look thrilled enough. Chessington, after all, is paying good money for the filming to take place here. It better look like people are having _fun_.

“Each suitor will explore a different area of the park with Doctor Wilson. You each get thirty minutes to convince him you’re the one,” Mary says. “Make it count, because afterwards we will have an immediate rose ceremony.”

After they wrap up Mary’s explanation, Jonathan leaves with Magnussen to do an activity called ‘go ape’, an adventure course with a zip line finale. John giggles at the thought. Definitely a short straw kind of situation.

Serves Magnussen right.

While he waits for his turn, Mary approaches John.

“How are you feeling today, John?”, she asks.

“Splendid,” he answers, staring at David and Sherlock tensely chatting in the distance.

“I imagine it’s the last day for you,” she says, bluntly. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I mean it in a good way!”

John can’t help but laugh. How could that possibly be good? He’ll have to go home, alone, and find out the truth on telly, once the show is aired.

“Maybe after this is over, we can go for a drink together,” she suddenly says.

John sucks in his breath. Did a celebrity just ask him out on a date?

She slips him a note in his breast pocket.

“Here’s my number. If you ever need to practise your massage skills for real.”

Without even awaiting his reply, she walks away, high heels barely gripping the sandy soil.

Almost immediately, Sherlock slips next to John, hands folded behind his back as if he’s working. He’s not looking at him, but at Mary, a few feet further, getting powdered once again. John wonders if he’s ever seen her real face.

“Stay away from Mary Morstan, John,” Sherlock rumbles.

“Why?” John pushes one eyebrow up. “She’s not the killer, is she?”

“No,” Sherlock says. Then, after a short pause: “She’s just not good wife material.”

Oh, John thinks. This is rich. Coming from someone who will have sex with him, yet will not even consider a relationship.

It’s unfair, and John knows it. But he still snorts bitterly. “How would you know?”

Sherlock looks at his feet, presses his lips together. Then, he disappears without saying another word.

***

In the park animators’ office, John gets equipped with a monitor and a microphone to guide Sherlock through his private date time with Jonathan. He feels bad for snarling at Sherlock earlier. Hopefully now, he can prove his usefulness. His friendship. He really wants to work hard at that. He couldn’t stand losing Sherlock. John will take him in any capacity Sherlock will grant him.

On the screen, Jonathan and Sherlock board a rollercoaster.

John can’t help but snigger.

“The rollercoaster seems mandatory per contract, but maybe you can find a loophole?” he jokes into the microphone.

To his surprise, Sherlock repeats it to Jonathan, who laughs.

Right. Jonathan likes puns.

“Whoa there. Bad puns! Hopefully there’s a laughing track,” Jonathan says.

Sherlock smiles. Jonathan puts his hand on the small of his back as he guides him into the front car. They’re the only visitors in the park today, so they can have the best spots. Attached to the front of the coaster, a modified GoPro will register their reactions. John also has a live stream for that one, on a different monitor. He’ll need a private recording of it later. It will be a hit at Scotland Yard parties.

“Nervous?” Jonathan asks, as the large metal beast starts climbing.

“Why would I be nervous?” Sherlock replies.

“Just be elegant and keep your mouth closed,” John instructs.

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH,” Sherlock screams as the coaster plummets.

They reach a slightly slower part of the track.

“Take his hand,” John orders. He knows this drill from many awkward dates. The adrenaline makes you bond faster with someone. Hand holding helps - in several ways.

Sherlock complies. Jonathan looks at him in surprise. A soft smile tugs at the corner of Jonathan’s mouth.

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH,” they both yell.

When they stumble off the rollercoaster, Sherlock’s Belstaff is disheveled.

It reminds John of last night, when it covered his naked body, tickled his bare legs. His penis grows half hard just remembering its rugged feeling.

“That was fun,” Sherlock says. His eyes scream terror.

Will John now always have such a vivid reaction to seeing Sherlock’s coat?

“Let’s never do that again,” Jonathan replies.

God, he hopes not. Like Pavlov’s fucking boner, each time they go for a walk outside.

“Yes, please,” Sherlock says, and they laugh.

They barely need him, John realizes. They’re tuned into each other.

How many walks will John and Sherlock have left together, anyway?

Suddenly, a short alarm sounds through the park’s loudspeakers. Then, a female voice booms: “Attention to all visitors. It seems that our park’s gorilla Hamish has escaped his cage and is now wandering around the premises. Please, allow our park officials to escort you to the nearest building to take cover.”

 _Hamish the gorilla?_ The murderer is getting desperate, John figures. That’s hardly a threat at all.

Nobody named Hamish has ever scared anyone.

There are no large buildings nearby, only a small ice cream stand that’s closed for the day. Sherlock and Jonathan run toward it, and barely fit inside. However, the cameraman and soundman also need to get inside, soon making it a hugely cramped space where nobody can move a limb.

Jonathan and Sherlock press into each other, hard.

 _How hard?_ John wonders. He squints.

On screen, Jonathan’s face is dangerously close to Sherlock’s.

“Now that I have you backed into a corner…” Jonathan jokes, but then his face grows grave. “I must ask you about the massage pictures. Of course.”

Sherlock freezes. He glances into the camera, then back at Jonathan, then stops breathing altogether.

John can see him panicking.

What other choice does he have, than to help his friend? He promised.

“It meant nothing,” John says into the microphone, voice raspy as if it just passed through a defective blender.

For ten more long seconds, Sherlock stands blinking. Then, mechanically, he repeats: “It meant nothing.”

His voice nearly falters at ‘nothing’.

John presses on. They can both make it through this together. Just because they slept together, and John has feelings, doesn’t mean Sherlock should give up on his best chance at a happy relationship.

“John was just showing me how to give a massage,” John says into the microphone, “you know how the press are. They blow things up.”

Sherlock repeats it, word for word. John takes it, blow by blow.

“John is just my friend,” John says.

“He’s my best friend,” Sherlock says.

Jonathan looks Sherlock up and down, intently. They stand chest against chest. Jonathan must feel Sherlock’s heaving against him. (Or other body parts John doesn’t intend to think about. Definitely not thinking about.)

Then, Sherlock improvises. “As I’ve told you before, you don’t have to worry about him.”

 _As he told him before?_ John frowns. When did that happen? Must have been one of their secret, private conversations. _Pillow talk?_

Jonathan nods. “I asked you to trust me. So I will try to do the same for you. You seem like a good man.”

Slightly, Sherlock shakes his head. He looks down.

“What’s wrong?” Jonathan says.

It surprises John that Wilson picked up on his unease. Maybe it’s because they’re standing so close. Maybe it’s because they already have created an intimacy in a short amount of time.

Sherlock presses his lips together.

“You don’t think you’re a good man?” Jonathan asks.

“I simply don’t meet the standard qualifications for what people would call _a good man_ ,” Sherlock says. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me. That you should know about me. You’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“Like what?” Jonathan asks.

“I don’t cook, for example,” Sherlock says.

Jonathan smiles, but before he can make a joke, Sherlock picks up speed. Like a deduction, but about himself, and in all the wrong ways.

“I rub people the wrong way. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. I rarely call my parents. I sometimes make up deductions just to annoy people. I have made witnesses cry. I have even made victims cry, just for the sake of advancing a case. I once faked my death, and hurt all my friends. It was unforgivable. I smoke. Sometimes. I used to do drugs. Heroin, mostly.”

Jonathan glances at the camera, unsure. “Sherlock, stop.”

“When it was really bad, I shot up almost every day. I lied to my brother about it. I stole his money to sustain my drug habit in college. I lied and lied and lied-”

John stares at the screen, mouth agape. Sherlock really believes it - what David told him at the club. That he’s unloveable. That’s why he didn’t defend himself. John’s leg is jumping up and down. Like it’s in a hurry to run.

“Sherlock, I don’t care,” Jonathan interrupts. “Everyone has done things they regret. The point is in trying to be better. Even if it’s with ups and downs. And if we do start something together after this show, away from the cameras and escaped zoo animals… I would like the problems of your future to be my privilege.”

Sherlock stares at him, speechless. Something drops from his face, goes down his throat as he swallows.

Then, in a swift and natural movement, Jonathan leans forward and presses his lips softly against Sherlock’s. Their arms are stuck by their sides because of the cramped space, but Jonathan manages to pull one hand free and softly strokes Sherlock’s neck as he deepens the kiss. His fingers wrap around his curls as he opens his mouth over Sherlock’s. A tiny whimper escapes Sherlock’s throat. It is a dance. A stock still dance with careful steps and breathtaking turns.

John stares at the monitor. He feels his heart clench like a fist in his chest.

It will make good television.

He should be happy for Sherlock.

It’s what Sherlock wants.

-deserves.

 

***

 

John and Jonathan’s private date is a bit more calm, and John is grateful. They do a river ride together, past beautiful mechanical animals, inside dark rooms, sitting in the same boat. The pace is slow, and in the background, cheesy music plays. With them in the boat, a cameraman and soundman sit, but they ignore them as well as they can while admiring their surroundings.

“This is a magical place,” Jonathan says.

“It really is,” John replies.

In this soft light, Jonathan is a truly breathtakingly gorgeous man, John notices.

The thought surprises him, even if it does come naturally. He has really tapped into his gay side now, he supposes.

Like Sherlock opened a gay chakra last night.

“The water and the sounds are so calming,” Jonathan smiles.

Maybe John longing for Sherlock has more to do with a need to experiment the way he wanted, but never did. Maybe, if he tries to expand his experiences, his feelings for Sherlock will diminish.

He needs his feelings to diminish so badly.

John tentatively leans forward, toward Jonathan, and almost reaches his lips.

Jonathan backs away quickly.

“What are you doing, Doctor Watson?” he asks, scandalised.

John startles. He feels mortified.

 _Only what you’ve been doing with Sherlock and David, from what I hear_ , John thinks.

“Sorry, I thought…”

What can he say? He thought he would test his sexuality by randomly kissing another man in his proximity? He wanted to feel the lips that kissed Sherlock so tenderly? Feel if there’s still a trace of Sherlock on them?

“That doesn’t seem appropriate.”

“Well, this is a dating show and you’re the bachelor,” John counters.

“No, you’re right, I’m sorry.” Jonathan sighs. “I feel like I haven’t gotten to know you well enough yet. I mean, three days ago I thought you were straight.”

 _So did I_ , John almost answers.

The boat bumps into the side of the track, changing course, following a planned path.

“When did you first discover you were gay?” Jonathan asks, all of a sudden. There’s a strange pitch to his voice. Like a dare.

“I’m not gay,”John says.

Jonathan looks up in surprise. Nearby, there’s the unmistakable sound of a camera lens zooming.

“I’m bisexual,” he continues. “And I guess I’ve… always known, in the back of my mind.”

As he says it, he knows it’s true. And John starts confessing. To Jonathan, but mostly, to himself.

“At camp, for example, I admired my slightly older, muscled leaders in ways that are not very heterosexual. I would compare boners with friends, sometimes, and the thought alone was… well, fodder. You know how it is. And later, in the army…”

John looks at the camera. He should not tell the whole of Britain about his hidden, deep affection for Major Sholto.

“You can fill in the blanks, I suppose,” John says.

Jonathan stays silent for a long, long time.

“So you’re really… bi?”

John nods. They ride in silence. Small waves die on the sides of their boat, providing a soothing, steady rhythm. Then, Jonathan turns to him, looking pensive. He leans forward, and pushes his lips onto John’s.

John, slightly surprised, parts his mouth. Jonathan’s tongue laps at him. Their tongues feel each other out, graze lips, find each other again. It’s wet, dirty, a little wild. Jonathan is skilled, there’s no denying. And John kisses back. But it feels like a performance, empty, a television show.

When Jonathan pulls back, there’s a faint frown between his brows.

 

***

 

The rose ceremony takes place at the Sea Life Centre in Chessington Park. Jonathan leads his suitors through a large walk through tunnel before they can collect their roses. Around them, fish swim, dead eyes following them.

Sherlock gets the first rose, receiving cold glares from David and sharks. David gets the second rose quickly though.

Unsurprisingly, it’s down to Magnussen and John.

John sets his shoulders, resigned. After the leaked massage pictures, John is really the competition Jonathan needs to eliminate. He’d be a fool not to boot John, just for laying a hand on Sherlock.

Probably it’s for the best to put a stop to it now, John reckons. They went too far, last night. John needs to step away and allow this all to naturally happen.

Right - and stop a murderer. Mustn’t forget.

“This rose ceremony was particularly hard for me,” Jonathan says. “I really want to believe in the best in people.”

Silence falls. Mary shifts on her feet.

“John. The newspaper articles have concerned me gravely. Even though I was assured by a close friend of yours, whom I trust, that you have the best of intentions.”

John looks down. The aquarium is not well lit, and on the ground, his own, dark shadow lays. The sight strikes him. His shadow is like an unshakeable different side for everyone to see. Following him around, seeking out the shape of him. After his childhood, he never paid much attention to his own shadow. Yet it lay there, all the time, waiting. Unnoticed, yet in plain sight. Just like his love for Sherlock was there all along, it just needed a spotlight.

Jonathan continues.

“Charles. As I have pointed out, the newspaper articles were deeply disturbing. And however way I look at it, the leaked photos can only have come from one source. They’re your papers, Charles. That’s a side of you I wish I hadn’t seen.”

Magnussen doesn’t react. He stares as if studying an odd species, through dull glasses, fascinated in an understated manner.

Jonathan’s mouth is a thin line. “John, please come collect your rose. You get another chance.”

John steps forward. His shadow follows.

 

***

 

During dinner at the Landmark, Janine comes up to the rather silent table of suitors. She’s carrying a stack of papers.

“Just to inform you three, the first ‘Final Date’ will be tonight. Sherlock, as you requested, that will be yours.”

Sherlock nods. A cold creeps into John’s limbs, even though it’s hot in the restaurant.

“Wear something stunning, okay? This date comes with an overnight sleep in Jonathan’s penthouse,” she winks.

David drops his cutlery, and walks away. John follows him with his eyes. If only he could be so dramatic, he didn’t have to be a grown-up.

But friends protect people.

When Janine is gone, Sherlock and John remain at the table, not really eating their cake.

“John,” Sherlock suddenly says, in a serious tone. “I must once again apologise for the leaked pictures. If I had known…”

“You didn’t leak them. You’re a victim here, too,” John interrupts.

Sherlock looks surprised. “But your reputation… I’ve been getting calls all day. Surely, you must have, too?”

John stabs at a piece of cake, thinks hard before he answers.

“I’m used to it, to be honest.”

Sherlock grows quiet.

“I know we never really talked about this but… After you died, the media were relentless. They called me endlessly. About how you were a fake, how you made up cases for attention, asking me if we were shagging. They were nasty, Sherlock.”

“John, I -”

“They waited outside 221B, called the practice, secretly filmed me at the bakery. One journalist even tried to come onto me in the toilets, just to see if I was gay.”

Sherlock bites his lip.

“So when they call you, please, don’t engage," John says. "Don’t even answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’, because that might become a story. If they ask you if you enjoyed me touching your butt, and you answer ‘no’, then the next headline is “I Hated Him Touching My Ass’. Seriously, Sherlock. Just don’t pick up anymore.”

“I won’t,” Sherlock’s voice sounds raspy. He puts his hands underneath his buttocks and stares at John for a long time.

“John, tonight is my Final Date.”

John’s mouth runs dry. “So I heard, five minutes ago at this exact table, yes.”

“I don’t need you to guide me tonight. No monitors, no microphone, nothing. Just… allow me this privacy. Please.”

It’s not a heart attack, John knows. He’s a doctor. But it feels like getting punched in the chest.

“Of course,” he replies, mentally lying beaten on the floor.

Sherlock puts down his fork, and waits before continuing. “I just wanted to... thank you for everything you’ve done.”

 _Yes_ , John thinks. _I want to throw my plate against the wall for everything I’ve done._

“In case we don’t see each other… much… anymore, I mean,” Sherlock says. He stands up, slowly.

John rises, too. It oddly feels like a goodbye. He holds out his hand.

Sherlock looks at it, then steps forward, and wraps John in his arms. They’re in the middle of the restaurant, and could be seen by Jonathan if he came in - what would he think then? But John doesn’t care. He feels warm, and at home. He melts into Sherlock, allows himself one lasts decadence before maybe losing Sherlock forever. He breathes deeply, to collect Sherlock’s smell in his dying lungs.

The only thing missing, is the Belstaff.

 

***

 

When John returns to his room, after providing a thousand sound bites for the production team, there’s something lying on his bed. He approaches it carefully, then freezes. It’s a monitor, with a bow tie around it, like a gift.

He knows immediately what will be on it.

John hesitates. He should probably respect Sherlock’s wishes.

But what if something happens? This is a murder investigation, after all. It’s not a romance.

Before he realises what he’s doing, he carries the monitor across the balcony, sits on Sherlock’s bed and turns it on.

Sherlock’s face appears.

It’s a betrayal, John knows it. But he needs to know Sherlock is safe.

The man is standing on the balcony with Jonathan. They’re holding telescopes.

“The stars are absolutely beautiful,” Sherlock says. “Thank you for putting these stargazers here.”

John’s brows lift. It’s odd to hear Sherlock thank people. Though he did, of course, thank John earlier in the restaurant too. Maybe Jonathan is causing a positive change in Sherlock.

He feels his stomach clench. He should put the monitor away, now.

But what if something happens?

On screen, Jonathan and Sherlock go back inside. The bed is covered in rose petals. There’s soft music playing. _Sex music._

John’s mouth runs dry. He needs a glass of water. It’s just so hard to swallow.

Now that they’re walking, John can see Sherlock’s whole body. His outfit is to die for: a well fitted, blue shirt that brings out his eyes, a dark blue jeans. John has never seen Sherlock in jeans before. But Jonathan likes to wear denim.

Jonathan pushes a glass of champagne in Sherlock’s hand, and leans in for a brief, soft kiss on the lips. Sherlock kisses back, but in his hand, John can see the glass shaking.

In John’s chest, there’s also shaking.

Then, Jonathan guides the cameraman out the door. Before closing it, he winks into the camera.

The monitor goes dark.

 

***

 

An hour later, John is still sitting on Sherlock’s bed. He doesn’t want to spend the night in its gaping emptiness, but he doesn’t want to move, either. The sheets haven’t been changed since last night. Sherlock must have put a “do not disturb” sign on the door.

The bed still smells of them.

He wonders what Sherlock and Jonathan are doing now. They were kissing earlier, but it’s been 56 minutes. They can’t kiss that long, can they? Maybe they have moved onto something else. Something… more.

John takes Sherlock’s rose and wraps his hand around its stem, lets a forgotten thorn push against his palm. He shouldn’t be thinking about it. But he can’t help himself.

Will Jonathan… Will Sherlock? Allow him?

John knows virginity is an outdated, ridiculous concept and of course, after last night, Sherlock is very much not a virgin anymore. Yet, there is still one part of him untouched, and John can’t stop thinking about it.

He should, though. He should. He doesn’t even know if Sherlock wants to do _that_. And if he does, he should do it with Jonathan, maybe. Probably.

And anyway, he doesn’t own Sherlock’s body. Sherlock can do what he pleases. So he should man up and be happy for him.

John stares at the rose in his hand. The feeling he got yesterday, when Sherlock filled him completely, when Sherlock touched his face desperately, like it was the last time he was ever going to feel it, when Sherlock breathed and shuddered on top of him, that particular feeling is a gift he wants to give Sherlock.

Virginity is not like a flower to be plucked. It’s a flower that needs watering, care, it needs steady ground and the chance to bloom.

John plucks a petal. It’s a half-hearted, old-fashioned, nostalgic gesture. When he was a child, playing with Harry, they would pluck flowers. _She loves me. She loves me not. She loves me._

The petal shines oddly in his hand. He examines it closer.

Then, his heart nearly stops. On it, in miniature, white stripes, something is written. Something that awakens a long-forgotten memory, of pain, of trying to understand, of examining a body.

Three letters.

_IOU._

 

***

 

John crashes through the penthouse’s door, nearly falling into a surprised Sherlock.

“It’s Moriarty, Sherlock. He’s behind all this!” he pants.

He’s exhausted from the long run upstairs, yet thrilled. Happy. He solved the case. He’s going to save everyone. They can go home, perhaps.

The room feels strangely quiet. On the couch, Jonathan Wilson lies, sleeping. Further away, in the bathroom, the sound of a shower running. And loudest of all, John’s heartbeat, still catching up with him.

“What? No it’s not,” Sherlock laughs nervously. “It’s really not. Moriarty’s dead. I saw him shoot his own brains-”

“It’s him! Look!” John tries to show him, and he lifts the rose, but he’s so excited he found the vital clue that he drops it. Before he can pick it up, Sherlock halts him.

“Calm down, John.” Sherlock glances at the door. “You need to leave.”

“No, _you_ need to leave. It’s not safe, Sh…”

In that instant, Sherlock presses his mouth onto John’s. And the world, the case, the flower, everything wilts in comparison to it. John’s hands stay frozen mid-air. That Sherlock should realise his love, at this crucial point in the case - John can’t believe his luck. But of course, that’s how it should happen. Within the thrill of the chase, blood pumping through their veins. He lets Sherlock’s angelic lips wash over him and press into his mouth. He lets Sherlock reach up his hand and put it on his neck, caress it, while Sherlock pushes his bottom lip against John’s upper lip. No tongues. Just soft, moving lips, speaking unheard words together, a confession long overdue.

Then, Sherlock lets go. His face looks like a thousand pieces of glass shattering. John looks back, confused. Something’s wrong. A numbness spreads from his neck over his shoulder. Dizziness sets in. He looks at Jonathan on the couch, still in an oddly deep sleep. He looks at the bathroom door, behind which there’s still the sound of water running, then it stops.

With an unexpectedly heavy arm, John reaches behind him, touching his neck. He looks at Sherlock’s hand. He’s holding a syringe. Confusedly, John searches Sherlock’s face, pale and speechless. A guilty look. John blinks and blinks, but the haziness won’t disappear.

He falters. His world shifts.

“Shhhhhlock,” he slurs, half reaching for his friend as his knees give out and he slowly, helplessly crashes to the floor.

Behind him, the bathroom door opens. Out peeks a head.

“Shit, Sherlock,” Lestrade says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, yes, another Lorde title ;) Because why not?
> 
> This fic has been the best writing experience of my life. Most of you are so incredibly nice, I have no words, it makes me cry, it makes me never want this to end. However, we're two chapters away from chapter 10. I promise a happy ending. Have a nice weekend ;)
> 
> Next update: Monday.


	9. If every angel’s terrible, then why do you welcome them

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the words of my wonderful beta 88thparallel: "My heart just gave its letter of resignation and is packing up its desk."

It feels like fighting through a thick mist, like drowning in dirty water. John brings a heavy hand to his eyes. He is crying. Why is he crying?

He blinks and blinks but he doesn’t understand how he could be blinking - he’s not even _seeing_.

In the distance, muffled voices, like he is underwater in a swimming pool.

He needs to find the surface.

He blinks and blinks, against the heaviness of his own eyelids. Then, through drops of water and a misty film, light filters in. The shape of a room. White marble. A bathroom, he is in a bathroom.

John rubs his eyes. Concentrate. He needs to concentrate. Deep down inside, a voice is screaming _danger_.

Underneath him, suddenly the coldness of tiles. It sends a shiver through his spine. Right. Right. Okay. He’s lying on the bathroom floor. A hotel bathroom.

Someone put a towel underneath his neck.

_It’s Sherlock. Sherlock is in danger._

Groggily, he rolls his body around on the floor, puts his hands flat next to his head and tries to push himself up. His outstretched arms shake underneath the weight of his torso, and he changes tactics, crawling across the floor like back in his army days.  

In the bath, he can see a body lying. It’s Wilson.

Bloody hell. Wilson got the bathtub, and he got the floor?

Grunting, he pulls himself up using the rim. It’s dizzying. He is _not okay, not okay not okay_

He needs to be okay.

Keeping himself upright with one arm, he uses the other to feel Wilson’s pulse and check his breathing.

_Alive. Of course alive._

He remembers the kiss. One of deep, passionate betrayal. What an idiot he was, thinking that out of the blue, like magic, Sherlock suddenly loved him. Allowing the kiss of Judas.

Is that how he took down Wilson, too?

John lowers himself against the side of the bath, uses both hands to steady himself. He’s panting. Why is this so exhausting? Why is the room not normal-shaped? He needs to _think think think think_

Is Sherlock the murderer?

He laughs. No. That is definitely ridiculous.

From the outside, muffled sounds seep into the bathroom.

It’s where he needs to be, he knows. He claws at the tub, pushes himself up, fights the fog. Stumbles forward, into the bathroom door, and falls out. Onto the floor.

If he is not dead yet, he feels ready to die of a heart attack now. Three heads whip to look at him in surprise.

An annoyed looking Lestrade. Sherlock, pale as a sheet.

And closest to the door, she stands.

“The Woman,” John slurs, momentarily intrigued by the odd sound of his own voice. “The woman? The woman Woman.”

John grabs at the floorboards. He’s dazed and confused. Did Sherlock kiss his two suitors - yes, that _is_ what they are - into sleep just so he could have a meet-up with a dominatrix?

But why is Lestrade here? Is it a threesome?

He blinks and blinks against the blinding light.

Wait. _Gun_. A tiny, black, shiny gun, in Irene Adler’s hand.

Of course. Even her gun would be sexy.

She’s smiling. “You should have locked the bathroom door, Sherlock.”

Sherlock slowly tears his eyes away from John. “What do you want, Miss Adler?”

Irene approaches him slowly, while keeping her gun aimed at him with one finely manicured hand, nails gleaming in a particularly deadly shade of red. “You already know what I want.”

She stops just short of Sherlock and leans close. She caresses his neck with her gun. “Come on now. Impress a girl.”

John tries to stand, but his legs shake too hard. In the corner of his eye, in the middle of the room, he can see a gun lying. It must be Lestrade’s. If he could only, without anyone noticing, crawl over to it. He groans and tries to focus on breathing.

Maybe, if he saves them all, Sherlock will change his mind about him. (Pick him.)

Irene looks over to John. “The poor sod. How long did it really take you to figure it all out, Sherlock? How long have you made him suffer through all this, for nothing?”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. He glances at John.

John rubs his eyes. Damn those eyes. They are still crying.

Irene walks over to Lestrade’s gun. Elegantly, she picks it up.

“You killed Moriarty,” she says, studying the gun.

“Moriarty killed himself,” Sherlock says. “And you wouldn’t care that much about Moriarty. It has to be something else, something more. You’re a proud woman. I took that pride away when I punched in the code to your phone, didn’t I?”

Irene stiffens.

“Of course,” Sherlock comments. “The dominatrix doesn’t like to be humiliated.”

Irene raises the gun and points it at John. John giggles. The joke’s on her. He’s been sedated, he won’t feel anything.

“Please,” Sherlock’s voice falters.

John’s smile falls. Something is wrong.

“I just want to put him out of his misery,” Irene says, pouting. “Because you’ve been making him deliciously miserable, haven’t you? It’s been frightfully amusing to watch.”

She lowers her gun and walks back to the door, like she doesn’t have a care in the world, then turns around.

John starts crawling toward her. She mustn’t get away.

“John, no,” Sherlock says, keeping his hands in the air.

“Like a puppy, isn’t he?” Irene smiles. Then her smile drops. “You’re wrong. I did care about Moriarty. Before he died we… grew closer. A lot closer.”

John has nearly reached her now. But then he freezes. He feels the familiar coldness of a gun in his neck.

“Does that ring a bell?” she asks.

“Let’s talk about this,” Lestrade says.

Irene ignores him. She cocks the gun.

“Please! Don’t. I’ll do anything,” Sherlock quickly says.

John fingers a frown on his forehead. Sherlock sounds panicky. Surely he must have a plan? He always has a plan.

Irene turns to Sherlock. “Oh, honey. I don’t need anything. I am curious, though. How did you figure it out? In the end, am I really so obvious?”

On the floor, near John, a disregarded rose lies. It feels odd, to John. Strangely out of place. He stares at it, but his head won’t clear.

“The End of the World restaurant,” Sherlock says, rapidly. “You once asked me if… If I would have dinner with you, if it was the end of the world. Then, it suddenly all clicked. The show’s tagline. _There’s no ‘i’ in love_. ‘I’ for Irene. You never could resist a touch of the dramatic, could you? And the codes for the escape room. 23537 - on a cellphone keypad, it spells ADLER. And 1058, it suddenly came to me where I heard that number before. You used it, as a fake code when I was trying to figure out how to unlock your phone.”

Sherlock breathes. “The ridiculous number of riding crops during the horseback riding date, too, of course, were a giveaway. And Hamish the gorilla was really just hubris.”

She smiles. “Yes, very few people know Doctor Watson’s middle name. Well done, clever boy. Well done.”

“You wanted me to figure it out,” Sherlock says. “You were leaving me clues.”

“And yet you remained so clueless,” she says.

Irene motions to two empty syringes lying on the table. “And that’s how you were planning to take me out? One drug for Wilson, one for me?”

“I figured you’d probably… Try to kiss me at some point,” Sherlock says.

John brings a shaky hand to his head. He’s sweating.  

Irene presses the gun harder against his neck.

“Well, that plan went awry,” she smiles. “Look, boys. It’s been fun, watching you writhe and dance and struggle. But as you would expect, I’m a very busy woman. I must be making my leave. And I did warn you, didn’t I, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s voice sounds strangled. “ _I will seduce him. Then kill him_ ,” he quotes the threatening note they thought was directed at Wilson.

“That’s the trouble with writing about queer men, isn’t it?”, she says. “All those _he’s_ and _him’s_ , all those confusing pronouns. You never know who each ‘he’ is really supposed to be.”

She pets John’s hair. “Now you know.”

Without further ado, she fires.

At the same moment, a figure grabs her from behind, making her miss the shot. John cowers, ears ringing. Then, another shot rings. This time, the bullet grazes just above John’s knee. John lets himself drop to the floor. He stares at his legs in surprise. Then, he looks up.

Above him, Mycroft is struggling with Irene. In her neck, a syringe sticks.

She fights like a cat in bathwater.

Mycroft catches Irene in his arms as she grows more and more weak. “The thing about a reality show, Miss Adler,” he says, “is that Big Brother is always watching.”

As he slowly lowers her limp body to the floor, he looks at Sherlock disapprovingly. “This was a terrible strategy,” he says.

But Sherlock is already running to John. He frantically touches John’s legs to feel for a wound. Panicky, Sherlock searches every area of John’s calves, knees, thighs. The touches make John’s eyes watery once more. He means to say: there is a wound. There are many wounds.

Just none that are visible to the eye.

John’s hands feel helpless.

His hands are usually helpless around Sherlock.

Sherlock helps John up and guides him to Jonathan Wilson’s bed. It’s still covered in rose petals. John is utterly confused. Everything is hazy. Now the adrenaline has worn off, the mist creeps back over him.

As Sherlock tucks him in, John looks up and can’t stop himself from giggling. But he must be careful, on alert, still. He mustn’t show how much he loves this man.

“You should sleep, for now,” Sherlock says. “I’ll be here if you need me.”

“Why would I need you?”, John says, fighting to hide everything he has.

 

***

 

It’s well into the next morning when John wakes up. He grunts, and rolls over to find Jonathan Wilson sitting up next to him, looking just as confused. Sherlock wheels a breakfast cart over to the side of the huge luxurious bed.

Why does Sherlock seem to think breakfast in bed always makes everything better?

John grunts and lifts himself up. It feels like there’s a scone-sized rock inside his brain. Sherlock looks at them both, guilt in his eyes.

“This was not what you expected to wake up to,” John tells Jonathan, wiping some post-sleep saliva off his chin. “Sorry.”

He is not sorry.

“Did you… did you drug me?” Jonathan asks Sherlock, disbelieving.

Sherlock pours them tea.

“It was harmless. We thought you’d be safer if you slept through the tough part.”

“We?”

“Lestrade and I.” Sherlock glances at John.

John stares back angrily.

“What happened?” Jonathan asks.

Sherlock hands him a cup. John refuses his. “The problem was theorising without all the data. At first, we assumed the threatening note was directed at you. But as the show progressed, it became clear someone was trying to destroy _me_ . Too many of the clues were obviously meant to stand out to _me_.”

John swallows heavily. So Jonathan did know about the note? Sherlock told him?

“They were hellbent on framing me, exposing me, hurting me,” Sherlock continues.

Sherlock kneels by the side of the bed, like he is begging.

“I’m sorry you got dragged into this, Jonathan.”

Jonathan crosses his arms. “Was this whole show a scam?”

“A bit, yes,” Sherlock says. “Though the network really did pay for a show, and not all participants were malicious. Irene Adler was just the sponsor. The puppetmaster behind the scenes.”

“What about Janine?” Jonathan asks.

John’s head is pounding with anger. How can Jonathan be so calm? Why did Sherlock choose to face a deadly opponent without him? What did Lestrade have to offer that John didn’t?

“A producer Irene hired,” Sherlock says. “Janine really was just making reality television. Sadly, we can’t arrest her for that.”

 _Bloody villainous plotting, though_ , John thinks to himself.

“And what about Mary Morstan?” Jonathan asks.

“Just a horny celebrity friend of Janine’s,” Sherlock says. “Not a secret assassin or anything ridiculous of the sort.”

John stares at his feet. So she did just give him her number, without ulterior motive. Well, at least not anything illegal.

“And Bainbridge and David were just regular suitors, too, it seems,” Sherlock adds. “Though Wiggins did write in his notes that Bainbridge liked BDSM. So that will have to be investigated. It will take a while until the police have screened everyone. Naturally, production will be postponed a few days.”

John’s jaw drops. That git is not seriously suggesting they go through with this lunacy, is he? The case is solved, he’s not staying here for one more minute.

He stumbles out of bed, and, still shaky (so not as cool as he’d like), he stomps out the room.

 

***

 

Right before the elevator doors close, Sherlock manages to jump in. He’s panting. He’s still wearing the jeans and blue shirt he was wearing yesterday. That he kissed both Jonathan and John in. That he _stabbed_ them in.

“John,” Sherlock says, like a mother talking to an unreasonable toddler. “Channel Five already invested so much money. They’ve made promos. They have hours of material. And we signed contracts, we’ll be ruined if we don’t see this through.”

John angrily pushes the button to the second floor.

“You didn’t tell me!” John explodes.

Sherlock startles.

“You didn’t involve me - _again_ \- with your plans. You just went ahead and put yourself in bloody danger!”

“We thought it would be safer…” Sherlock manages.

“Safer! You almost died! _Again_ ,” John says, nearly tripping over his own words, suddenly catching his reflection in the mirror of this infuriatingly slow elevator. It’s dropping steadily, but he feels as if he’s rapidly being sucked into a hole which he can never climb out of again.

“John,” Sherlock says, softer.

“How am I supposed to believe my best friend gives a rat’s ass about me, if you never TELL ME ANYTHING?” John yells, the words ricocheting around them.

“I jumped off a building for you!” Sherlock yells back.

 _Typical of him to use that one, again_ , John thinks. _How long is he going to fucking live off that?_

“No! You jumped off a building because Mister Consulting Detective doesn’t ever fucking consult anyone!”

Sherlock moves his head back, as if slapped. “I did consult people this time,” he says, quietly.

Yes, Lestrade.

“What, Wilson? You told him about the note, when?”

“After Wiggins was stabbed. I had to, John.”

“Why? Because he deserved to know his life was in danger? That wasn’t a problem when we started!”

“No, because I had to convince him to take you, my straight friend, on as a suitor!”

That takes John aback for a few seconds. “Well, you still didn’t have to lie about it to _me_. If I had known he was in on it…”

Sherlock looks guilty.

But John’s anger keeps boiling up and spurting out.

“... I would have acted differently!” he yells.

Wouldn't have kissed the bloke, for sure.

Sherlock winces.

“And I can’t believe you put _him_ in the bathtub and _me_ on the floor!” John adds, for good measure.

“Well, he _is_ a celebrity doctor,” Sherlock says.

“ _I_ am a celebrity doctor!” John yells, exasperated. “People on Twitter know my name just as much as they know Wilson’s!”

The elevator pings. It’s the fourth floor. An elderly lady slowly walks inside and stops between them. They stand in painful, deafening silence. On the third floor, the lady gets out. Shuffling her feet excruciatingly slowly. When the elevator doors finally close, and they are between the third and second floor, Sherlock pushes the emergency button. The elevator comes to a halt with a shock.

“What the hell are you doing, Sherlock?”

The space suddenly feels so much more confined.

Sherlock turns to him and steps closer.

“I just need you to listen, John,” Sherlock says, pushing him against the mirrored wall.

John breathes out shakily. They’re standing very close. This is unfair.

“I need you to listen because apparently you didn’t hear it the first time. Nothing means more to me than keeping you safe, John. Nothing. I don’t care what happens to me, she could’ve shot me, she could have killed me. But if she had hurt you, she would not have gotten out of that room alive.”

John’s eyes prickle. _YOU hurt me. You did._

“John, I knew you would be safer staying put in your room, and I was right. You almost died yesterday because you decided to come up to the penthouse. Lestrade and I were expecting her soon. Mycroft had texted me as much. She was going to come in, be surprised by Lestrade’s presence, and if needed, I was going to use the syringe on her. Until _you_ decided to come. So please, next time, respect my wishes if I tell you to stay out of it.”

John scoffs. That’s a fucking ridiculous plan.

Sherlock puts a hand on John’s shoulder.

John leans away from him.

He’s still angry. And now he’s got an angry boner, damn it.

“Now, I ask you for one last miracle,” Sherlock says. “I ask you to see this television show through with me. It’s only one and a half more episodes. You get a final date with Jonathan, so does David, and then the finale. Will you do this for me?”

John bites his lip. Apparently, this is important to Sherlock. Perhaps not because of the silly contracts - he’s sure Mycroft could get them out of it. Almost getting shot is probably a basis for annulment. But perhaps there is more to it. Sherlock has clearly been connecting to Jonathan in a way he never could, before. If this is a side of him Sherlock desires to explore, John needs to support him in that. How could he not want Sherlock to be happy?

John nods. He feels like a deflating balloon.

Sherlock pulls back, pushes the emergency button and the elevator starts moving once more.

“Besides,” Sherlock says, smiling mischievously. “We have a wedding episode to prepare for.”

 

***

 

It takes a few days for the police to sift through the whole production team, and Sherlock and John temporarily move back to Baker Street. They’ve been in London this whole time, yet it feels like coming home from a foreign country. The flat feels different, now. John can’t stand it. Everything would look the same to an outsider: Sherlock retreats into his mind palace, they order take-out, John reads the paper, Sherlock plays the violin. But they don’t touch. They barely talk. And Sherlock starts showering at different times than before. Always in the middle of the night, when he thinks John is asleep. John listens to the water streaming, eyes wide open in bed. Is Sherlock trying to avoid John seeing him half naked? Is this how it’s going to be?

No, John thinks. How it’s going to be, is Jonathan will move in over time, and he will move out.

To John, it feels forever for the show’s production team to recover. But really, it happens impressively quickly. Since the police arrested part of the team, Janine appoints the hipster with the beanie as her new right hand man. He quickly steps up and calls his hipster friends from film school to come help. They reschedule shootings, talk to the press, rebook dates, smooth over Jonathan. Everything is ready by day 6.

When John arrives back on set, suitcase in hand, he sighs.

Their rooms at the Landmark are not adjoined anymore. No more balcony hopping.

John resigns to his fate. It’s his final date with Jonathan Wilson today. He grabs a suit the hipster boy prepared for him. Into battle.

 

***

 

First, they tape an extra scene with Mary and all the remaining suitors, to fit the murder case into the narrative of the show. By the time it airs, the public will definitely have heard about it. So they need a smooth transition.

“... So, in short, it’s time to return to the most important case of them all: the case of Sherlock’s heart,” Mary says. “Or will it be John’s or David’s?”

She winks at Wilson, who looks fairly fed up with the whole show.

“Tomorrow, David gets his final date with Jonathan. First, it’s John’s turn. Where are you taking him, Jonathan?” Mary asks.

“It’s a surprise,” he smiles into the camera. “But I plan to show him an eyeful.”

John sighs. Maybe Sherlock has some sedatives left?

After Janine yells cut, Mary waits for John to stand apart from the other suitors until she approaches him, like a bloodhound sniffing out prey.

“I can’t believe they’re still making you do this,” she says.

“Hm?” John asks.

“Participate in this thing. Even though you’re obviously not gay.”

John stares at her. Should he correct her? He glances at Sherlock. Within hearing range. He doesn’t want to make things awkward between them. If Sherlock thinks he ‘made John gay’, he might feel guilty about all the sexual acts they did.

“I’m having fun,” John lies.

“Well,” Mary smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “My offer still stands, Doctor.”

In the background, Sherlock fiddles with his microphone.

 

***

 

The Final Date is a nighttime ride in the London Eye. It’s covered in rainbow colors for the occasion. They sit it in awkward silence. John stares out the glass pod, to the darkened, misty skyline of the city. London does not care to be seen.

When they reach the top of the ferris wheel, Jonathan turns to John.

“Obviously, I’m going to throw you out,” he says.

John jerks his head to him. Oh. He meant the show, not the pod.

Would have been okay with the pod, at the moment.

“I have to do one more surprise elimination before the wedding,” Jonathan says. “I wish I could throw out you and Sherlock together, since you’re a package deal anyway. But Janine keeps threatening the next four generations of my lineage.”

John bites the inside of his cheek. “Look, Jonathan. For what it’s worth, I didn’t know about Sherlock’s plans, and I haven’t lied to you.”

“You didn’t tell me about the threatening note.”

“Fair,” John admits. “But that was a police approved decision. And Sherlock did tell you eventually.”

Jonathan sniffs. “Right. Sherlock.”

The Eye starts moving again.

“You’re angry with him?”

“Aren’t you?”

Fair point.

John could easily walk away now. Leave Jonathan simmering in his anger, and take Sherlock home. But how could he be so selfish? Winning by tripping the competition is not winning. And Sherlock should get a shot at getting what he wants. And what he wants, is Jonathan.

“Of course I’m angry with him,” John says. “But I’m also grateful. He saved my life, in many ways. And I think he saved yours, too, several times.”

Jonathan puts his hands in his pockets. “Is… Is Sherlock a good man?”

The question takes John by surprise.

“Production keeps calling him a sociopath,” Jonathan explains. “And after he drugged me… Well.”

“He drugged me too, and I’m his best friend,” John says.

He should get a punch card for each time that happens, actually. Five times drugged, get one free.

“Not sure if that argument would win a debate competition,” Jonathan says.

They laugh, for the first time tonight. And as their smiles die down, John stares at the Gherkin, clears his throat.

“Sherlock will tell anyone who will listen that he’s a sociopath. He wants it to be true, you know? He wants to be all work and no play, he wants to be the brain without the heart, so badly. That’s why he lashes out and insults everyone. But in everything he does, his love shines. And it’s not just that he would have killed himself to save his friends. That was a bit over the top. No, it’s the little things. I once saw him give a nine million pounds hairpin to a secretary, so genuinely happy for her. He once threw a man out the window for hurting our landlady, then he hugged her with the softest smile you’ve ever seen on a man. He cured my leg. He cured my _depression_. And you should hear him play the violin. It’s the most heartbreaking thing you’ll ever hear. Pours his soul into it. So is he a good man?” John grins. “He’s a bloody fantastic man.”

John looks down, suddenly embarrassed.

Jonathan turns to him, a tiny frown forming between his brows. His mouth is open, but no words come out.

 

***

 

When they arrive at the Landmark, after five more rotations that made John want to punch London in the Eye, Sherlock slides between the elevator doors right before they close. He pushes the button to the second floor, and positions himself between John and Jonathan.

“Sherlock! This is _our_ date,” John, says, annoyed.

“And you look marvelous. Now, Janine needed us for something,” he says, dragging them both out at the second floor.

“What, in Mary’s room?” John says, realising where Sherlock is heading.

“Meeting point,” Sherlock says, and swipes a hotel card at her door. It opens, and as he pulls them inside, a dreaded feeling enters John.

More than a feeling is entering Mary.

On the bed, David hurriedly removes himself from her and covers himself with a bedsheet, leaving Mary exposed. She covers herself with her hands, mortified.

Jonathan takes one look at them, his mouth a sad line, then turns around, and leaves.

Sherlock watches him go with a brief look of regret on his face. Meanwhile, Mary scrambles for her clothes and David yells profanities. John can relate. He stares at Sherlock. It seems like a (literal) dick move, for Sherlock to take them here. Is he that desperate now, to take out the competition like this? Is that how much he wants to get married on a tv show? Seems unlike him. Then again, love can make you do crazy things. Especially first love.

Sherlock leans toward John.

“Guess you won’t be needing her number anymore,” he whispers in his ear.

John glares. “That was cruel, Sherlock.”

As he walks away, Sherlock follows in his steps.

“It’s better to know something like this earlier than later,” he says.

“I’m going up to the penthouse, and you’re not riding the elevator,” John retorts, slightly agitated.

As the elevator doors close on Sherlock’s face, John can see the mask dropping, in just those last seconds. John’s heart tugs. Maybe he shouldn’t have given him such a hard time. David was wrong for Jonathan anyway, that much is sure. In the long term, Sherlock did the man a favor. Even if he did go about it in the only way he knows: by revealing a secret truth in the most dramatic way he could think of.

He goes to the penthouse, and to cheer Jonathan up, they order room service and press the beanie hipster to bring games. They play Operation, Cluedo and Monopoly all night.

 

***

 

The final episode will be shot on location. Jonathan, Sherlock and John are pressed together in the back of a car for almost three hours, with Sherlock in the middle, as if he’s the bloody bachelor now. John is annoyed. But then, from the corner of his eye, he sees Jonathan secretly take Sherlock’s hand, and he knows it’s the truth. They’ve been playing the game for Sherlock’s heart, and this is just losing.

When they arrive at the hotel, a charming cottage in Bristol, Janine has a long, lively conversation with the reception desk before she returns, face apologetic.

“Sorry, boys,” she says, “since our production schedule was moved due to the police investigation, the hotel couldn’t hold our rooms anymore. They’ve only got two left. One is for Jonathan, obviously, and since it would be unfair to stack either of you with him, you will have to share a room. Will that be a problem?”

John swears she’s smiling.

 

***

 

It’s a nice enough room, John supposes. He tries not to think about it - there is only one bed.

Sherlock positions himself at the tiny desk with a chemistry book. “You can take the bed,” he says. “I don’t need much sleep.”

John rolls his eyes. “Just sleep, Sherlock. Don’t you want to look good on your wedding day?”

Sherlock winces. He doesn’t take his eyes off his book, though he is clearly only pretending to read. But John is not going to insist. If the man wants to sit at the desk all night, who is he? The Reading Police?

“Well,” John says. “After last night’s penthouse date, I’m exhausted, so I’m going to bed.”

It _is_ rather late. And John _is_ tired. Of everything. Sighing, he removes his shirt.

“You were wrong, you know,” John says, popping his trouser button.

Sherlock looks up, and freezes.

He looks beautiful. The soft, warm desk lamp light brings out the youth in his face.

“I didn’t almost die because I didn’t stay put like I was told to,” John says, pulling down his trousers. “I almost died because I was playing a game I didn’t know all the rules to.”

He hangs his trousers on the chair opposite Sherlock. Then, he sits on the bed and starts removing his socks.

“Just like before you jumped off St Barts. You didn’t tell me your plan so I didn’t follow it.” He lies down under the sheets. “You’ve got to start letting me in.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. John sighs. Alright then.

Sherlock blinks to his book, then closes it, turns off the desk lamp and goes to the bathroom. Once more John is resigned to listening to the sounds of water flowing.

Sherlock is gone for forty-five minutes. When he comes back, he has stripped down to black, tight underwear. His eyes are shrouded in shadows.

Sherlock slips under the sheets and immediately turns to his left side, away from John. With a tiny sigh, he turns off the last night lamp.

The whole room changes. As the artificial light drops away, the moon brings out a whole different surface, a different texture to the world. Hidden things are uncovered. Shadows fall differently, like dice.

John stares at Sherlock’s back. His scars blink understatedly in the moonlight. It is of a beauty rarely spoken of - the kind that shines from healing. From endurance, from strength, from bravery. Unexpectedly, John feels a wetness behind his eyes. This man lying in bed with him has been through so much to protect him. He is beautiful, and he doesn’t even know it. He covers his back like it’s a weakness, like it’s not a testament to the kind of man he is.

How could John ever repay such a debt?

John can’t help but move a little closer, touch a hesitant finger to Sherlock’s most outspoken scar, the one that curls around his neck. A wound that cut just a little deeper, a little closer to the heart. His fingertips lightly braze it, and Sherlock gasps, tenses for a moment, but doesn’t move away.

John traces the scar up to the curve of Sherlock’s neck, where he doesn’t dare to go further. He moves a little closer. There’s darkness around him, inside him, a longing - he dare not speak its name.

His belly touches Sherlock’s back now. His hips, he keeps carefully turned away from Sherlock’s behind. He doesn’t want any awkward erections suddenly rearing their ugly head. He just wants to -

\- he does -

press his lips against the scar in Sherlock’s neck. He dares not remove them. If he removes his lips, it becomes a kiss. Now it is just this - a connection. Sealed.

Sherlock’s chest trembles as it tries to release breath.

John wraps his arm around Sherlock, puts a steady hand on Sherlock’s beating heart, and closes his eyes.

As he feels Sherlock’s heart slowing down, John allows himself, for a moment, to imagine that they are lovers.

Then, Sherlock turns around, his knees touching John’s, dark unruly curls falling across his cheek and John’s shadow falling on his face. His hands are folded into each other, between them, just lying there like abandoned evidence.

“I’m nervous, John,” he says.

“What are you nervous about?”, John asks, staring at Sherlock’s long, pale neck.

“I need… your help,” his voice rumbles. “One last time. Will you help me?”

 _Lord help me_ , John thinks.

“Yes,” John whispers. _Anything, anything you want._

Sherlock moves his hands under the sheets. John’s throat runs dry as dust. His jaw drops. Sherlock is wriggling. Is he - is he removing his pants?

From underneath long wary lashes, Sherlock looks up to John.

After a few heavy seconds, he takes John’s right hand and gently moves it to his mouth. Gingerly, he puts his lips over John’s index finger and sucks it. He slides his tongue around the length of it - sucking the breath right out of John.

Then, Sherlock removes John’s finger from his hot mouth, and very slowly guides it down. He lifts his knee a little, places John’s wet finger right at his entrance, and lets go. Breathing unsteadily, Sherlock locks eyes with John.

John’s hand is frozen in place. He doesn’t think he’s breathing. The only thing moving about him, is his penis. It’s screaming at his finger.

Sherlock’s bottom lip drops, and he licks his tongue across it. Then, Sherlock leans in, buries his face in John’s shoulder.

“Please,” he says. “I want to do this with _you_ , first.”

John can feel Sherlock’s muscled ring underneath his fingertip. Should he? The wedding is tomorrow.

John tries to understand why Sherlock is asking for this. Perhaps he’s still afraid to take that last step, to open up to Jonathan. Maybe he thinks he can diminish the emotionally overwhelming importance of allowing someone to take him this way, by doing it outside of the confines of a relationship, first.

Maybe that is precisely the reason John shouldn’t do it.

He thinks of Jonathan. If he imagines Doctor Wilson doing this with Sherlock, tomorrow after the wedding, or a little further down their relationship, if they should pursue one - it hurts like a thousand needles being stuck in his heart. And if John is painfully honest with himself, doing this tonight with Sherlock, would feel like a small victory over Jonathan. That he, at least, shared this most intimate of moments, even if it’s just once; that it was before Jonathan.

That he was, well. The first.

It’s clear: Sherlock deserves a better man than John.

A bad time to realise, perhaps, with a finger pressing so closely to the man’s entrance.

“We shouldn’t, Sherlock,” John says, softly.

“Please,” Sherlock begs.

 _Please_ , John’s penis cries.

It feels like he’s outvoted. But it’s not a democracy, his brain decides.

He removes his finger, and puts his hand on Sherlock’s side. It feels heartbreakingly warm.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. Television show or not, you’re getting married tomorrow. We really shouldn’t.”

Sherlock doesn’t reply. His face is covered in shadows. He covers it, even more, with his hands.

John should stop touching him, surely. He removes his hand, and turns around, faces the wall wide-eyed. Heart beating in his chest.

But then, Sherlock wraps his body around him from behind, holding on tightly. And even if that walks a thin line still, John allows it. He pushes his back closer into Sherlock, as if he could somehow tighten the hug. In his neck, he feels Sherlock’s hot, erratic breath. He’s almost imperceptibly shaking.

 _He must be really nervous about tomorrow_ , John thinks.

He does not dare ask if he’s crying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realise this was a key chapter. You're either gonna love it or hate it. If you hate it, that's okay. But remember: you don't have to comment, and if you do, please be nice/respectful. I am a real person with feelings, just living my life giving up almost all my free time to write this story for you. 
> 
> Thank you to all you lovely people who've been reading and supporting and leaving kudos and subscribing. Truly, it means the world. 
> 
> (Also, 88thparallel is the best thing to happen to this world since the Beatles.) 
> 
> The chapter title is from the song Terrible Angels by Cocorosie:  
> You say you'll provide the birdbath / If I provide the skin / And bathing in the moonlight / I'm to tremble like a kitten


	10. One more deduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you hear the (alarm) bells?

“Well. I guess this is the most important day of our lives,” John says sarcastically, staring at himself in the mirror.

He and Sherlock are dressing up for the final day of shooting. The production team has provided them with identical grey morning suits and waistcoat combos, complete with light grey top hats. Very traditional-looking for a non-traditional wedding.

They’re inside a large, white tent, placed on the lawn of the Orangery at Goldney Hall in Bristol. The tent is usually used for garden parties, but it functions as a private dressing room for the occasion. There are cameras hanging in the corners, but John and Sherlock can be shielded from their view behind a large privacy curtain in the back. 

The curtain rises, and Sherlock appears. He looks stunning. 

Shoulder by shoulder in front of the mirror, John sighs. Even though they’re wearing the same clothes, standing next to each other, it feels like Sherlock is the catalogue version and John is the Amazon review pic. 

But it’s undeniable: they match.

“It’s as if  _ we’re _ the ones getting married,” John quips, but the joke tastes weird in his mouth.

Sherlock tenses, but before he can respond, Janine barges in. She’s carrying two silky, beige ties, and throws one at John. The other one, she curls around Sherlock’s neck. It would look like caring if she wasn’t so bossy.

“How are you today, diva?” She asks, tying the tie like a pro. “I’ve found all the flowers you requested. And all the other crap you insisted on decorating this whole wedding with. So you better smile as if there’s a nice, mutilated corpse in there, Mister Holmes-Wilson.”

John swallows.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” she tells John. “We’ll still pretend for the viewers, but come on mate, you barely made an effort. That awkward boat kiss doesn’t count and was frankly revolting to watch. You didn’t expect to win just because most of the other candidates were assassins, right?”

Sherlock swats Janine’s hands away and straightens the tie himself.

“You kissed him?” Sherlock asks, making eye contact through the mirror.

What does that even mean? Yes, John kissed Jonathan, during the boat ride at Chessington Park. It was odd. Looking back, perhaps Wilson was just testing if he was really straight like Sherlock had told him.

And John was testing whether he was really gay.

What right idiots they were.

“It meant nothing,” John says.

“A bit of a theme,” Sherlock replies. He looks down and straightens his jacket. Then, his eyes grow cold. “Well. I win.”

“Speaking of the winner,” Janine says, as Jonathan appears inside the tent. “You’re not supposed to see each other before the wedding, love. Bad luck!”

“I believe in making my own luck,” Jonathan says, smile quirking up. When his eyes land on Sherlock, he beams. “There he is, my luck.”

As Janine walks out, Jonathan pulls Sherlock to the side. John ducks to tie the laces of his shiny, black shoes. 

“I just wanted to check in on you,” Jonathan says quietly.

John can still hear them perfectly well.

“Why?” Sherlock replies, confounded.

“Because this is a pretty crazy, unusual situation,” Jonathan smiles kindly. “I don’t… I don’t want you to feel pushed. You can still walk away if you want, that’s what I’m saying.”

John leans closer, and nearly loses his balance. Fuck.

“We can go as slow as you need, even after we’re  _ tv show married.  _ Though I hope we can turn this into something real. And in time, maybe, you’ll move in with me,” Jonathan says, glancing at John. 

Is Sherlock nodding? John pulls the shoelaces on tightly. He feels like running away.

Jonathan kisses Sherlock softly on the lips, and leaves. Sherlock stares after him, looking pensive.

John sits up. It feels like he just strapped lead around his feet. 

“Will I… have to move out of 221B?” Sherlock asks, voice slightly faltering.

John frowns. “I can move out too, if you want,” he says, confused. “Though I don’t know why you’d want that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You can’t stand to be there. Not since you… fell,” John says. He turns away from the mirror.

“Why would you think that?” 

Sherlock sounds genuinely surprised. Surprised that John noticed, perhaps. Sherlock seems to be under the impression that John can’t read him, but he can.

“You’re never there, anyway,” John says. “You join me in Tesco, you accompany me when I go and get take-away, you drag me on cases, and when I’m working, you hang out with Lestrade, Molly, and I think one time you even hung out with  _ Mycroft _ ? So, you really must not like 221B anymore.”

Sherlock looks down, unsure. John steps closer, and fixes Sherlock’s tie with a tie pin. 

Suddenly, the question bursts out like a popping bubble in a champagne glass.

“Did you miss me?” John asks him.

Sherlock looks up, beneath fluttering eyelashes.

“When you were away. You don’t care much for 221B, it seems, so you haven’t missed that. But did you…” John worries he’s showing too much, now. Asking this like he’s some sort of army wife after her husband comes home from the war. “Did you miss me?”

It’s out now. He didn’t even know it was  _ in _ . But he realises he’s never asked. He told Sherlock how much he mourned him, during those two years. But he never asked if Sherlock mourned  _ him _ . 

Sherlock swallows, and puts his hand on John’s. Both hands resting on his beating chest.

“Of course,” he says, quietly. “Of course I missed you. I… I thought of you every single... day.”

John startles. Sherlock must have felt incredibly alone during those two years of exile. Maybe Sherlock had been following him and Molly and Lestrade around these past months because he couldn’t stand the solitude anymore, the silence of an apartment. John had been so busy blaming Sherlock, he’d never really considered what it was like on the other end of the stick. While he was mourning Sherlock, at least John had been surrounded by friends. Being dead is perhaps... lonelier. 

“When I was away, I made a vow. The only vow I ever made,” Sherlock says.

He releases John’s hand. “I vowed to never die alone again.”

John takes a step back. It hits him, hard. This marriage today has a larger significance for Sherlock than he could have imagined. It means Sherlock needn’t ever be lonely again.

He feels his eyes prickling as he adjusts Sherlock’s tie one last time.

“I know we’re supposed to be competing today,” he says. “But I want you to know… I want you to be happy, and when you marry, you’ll have your best man standing right next to you.”

And in the relative privacy of this wedding party tent, he tentatively puts his arms around Sherlock. It feels like asking too much, stealing this man’s soft generosity one last time. He can’t even pretend it’s Sherlock that needs a hug. He needs it.

 

***

 

“This is it, you’ve officially lost it,” a voice whispers in John’s ear. 

It’s Harry, who has invited herself to walk him down the aisle because their dad wouldn’t be caught dead at a gay wedding, even a fancy televised one. They’re waiting just outside the Orangery. From what John can see through the open door, it’s a beautiful venue with yellow wallpaper covered in flowers and swallows. 

Harry grabs John by the elbow and shoots Sherlock a look.

“Why are you lot dressed as freaky adult twins?” She asks.

John rolls his eyes, but Sherlock holds out his hand cordially. “It’s never twins, Harry Watson. Finally, we meet. I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

“Actually, we are. John and me. Twins, that is,” she says, refusing his hand and going in straight for a hug. 

She pushes a lock of hair off of her forehead and amusedly takes in Sherlock’s baffled expression.

“The great Sherlock Holmes. You were… roommates, right?” She grins inexplicably wide. 

“Flatmates,” John corrects, wincing at the memory of last night. 

They haven’t spoken a word of it anymore. John woke up with his limbs tangled around Sherlock, then quietly extracted himself - it was like ripping off a band aid, except he was the wound.

By the time he got back from the shower, the window to address the situation had closed. 

“Where are the bridesmaids?” Harry says. 

“Down, girl,” Sherlock smiles. He never smiles at new people.

An older gentleman joins them, and grabs Sherlock’s arm.

“There you are, son,” he says.

Shyly, Sherlock allows his dad to squeeze his upper arm. For a brief moment, he seems like a kid again. 

John stands a little straighter. Sherlock’s father is an older gentleman with grey hair, kind eyes, and frankly excellent taste in clothes. His suit and bow tie are something John would buy, himself, certainly.

But what can he say to make a good impression? Is he even supposed to  _ want _ to make a good impression? This is just a mate’s dad, after all.

Harry holds out her hand. “Hi, I’m Harry, this is John, but I’m sure you’ve met him before.”

“No, I haven’t actually,” Sherlock’s father says, shaking both their hands. He shoots Sherlock an accusatory look. “You’re different than I expected from Sherlock’s stories, John. So… ordinary.”

“Thanks,” John says, awkwardly.

“He’s not,” Sherlock says. 

They stare at each other. Harry looks from one to the other, raising her eyebrows. 

“Right, how long do we have to wait here? I’m dying to get out of this dress,” she says. “Perhaps with her.”

She nods in Janine’s direction, who comes running at them. “Boys, sorry about the delay. We’re ready to start. Sherlock, you go inside first, accompanied by your father. Then you, John, with your sister. Then we will proceed as planned. Standing there, Jonathan Wilson will make his final choice, the most important one of his life. The loser will take a seat in the front row.”

“The loser?” Harry asks, offended.

“I mean your brother,” Janine says.

“Ooh, I like her,” Harry whispers in John’s ear, rather unhelpfully.

They take positions and wait for Mary to make an introductory speech inside. They’re meant to be quiet, to not disturb the recordings. 

But Sherlock is gradually tensing up. John opens his mouth.

“You sure you want to go through with this?” Sherlock’s father asks, holding his arm.

Sherlock glances at John and swallows. But then, the Wagner’s Bridal Chorus starts playing. It’s time for him to leave. 

“Did you know that song’s really about a mass murder at a wedding?” Harry asks. 

“Yes,” Sherlock says flatly, and takes off with his father.

They walk off into the hallway, and the light falls so gently on him, John can’t help but stare. He’s beautiful and manly and soft and it’s perfect. Nearly perfect.

Harry pinches his arm. “Mate, what’s gotten into you?”

Well. Sherlock. Literally.

It’s as if she just read his thoughts. Her eyes nearly pop out of their sockets. “Tell me you didn’t!”

John tries to rip his arm away. “He didn’t. Doesn’t. Now shush.”

But Harry shakes at him. “Dude. No. You can’t let him do this. Noooooooooo. This is so tragic.”

“Shut up.”

“You want me to kick that fancy doctor’s ass?” She asks, defiantly. Then, mumbling dreamily: “Or perhaps that producer’s ass.”

“No. Wilson is actually very nice. And I’m fine. It’s all fine. More than fine,” John says. 

“Stop. Saying. Fine,” she hisses.

It’s their cue to walk the aisle, and Harry isn’t even trying to smile anymore. The whole way to the front, she glares at Wilson, who’s shifting uncomfortably on his feet. 

But John is gawking at their surroundings. Everywhere, there are familiar faces seated at large white tables. Though some people are here for Wilson, it’s mostly John and Sherlock’s friends and family. It’s like getting stabbed in the heart. Molly, Lestrade, John’s cousins. His public rejection - for all of them to see.

And then there’s the room. Everywhere, there are white roses, cornflowers and Baby’s Breath. On the tables, the napkins are folded into dog faces. The bread, John sees, is presented in tiny pink suitcases. In the middle of the tables, there are crystal ashtrays and statues of cats. John squints. The salt and pepper shakers look like… pill bottles. Odd. Like the decorator had a stroke. Or he’s a recovering junkie with an odd sense of humour? 

They stop at a large table. Harry leaves John standing next to Sherlock, and takes a seat next to Mycroft, Sherlock’s dad and - John presumes - his mom, who looks him over with interested, bright blue eyes. 

Cue the officiant.

“We are gathered here today in an non-church for a sinfully gay wedding,” Mike Stamford says. He’s wearing a long, black gown, more suited for a judge than a priest.

Did he raid a costume store on the way here?

“Cut, cut!” Janine yells. “Christ, can you just… take this seriously?”

“It appears that just about anyone can get a wedding officiant’s license online these days,” Sherlock comments. He’s grinning.

Mike winks at him. “Thanks for the invite.”

John frowns at the glasses positioned on the table. 

“Are those our wine glasses? The ones we have at 221B?”, John whispers.

“They’re the same brand, I suppose,” Sherlock answers.

They stand awkwardly, while Mike Stamford gets powdered again to reshoot his introduction. Nearby, Jonathan smiles at them. Well. At Sherlock.

“I have a small problem. I can’t seem to get my vows right,” Sherlock whispers, suddenly. “I’ll have to improvise.”

Alright. One last advice. Why not?

“Just tell him he’s amazing and fantastic,” John offers. “And… brilliant. And clever. Everything you’d want in a man.”

Sherlock stares at him for a long time. 

“You’re amazing and brilliant”, he repeats, slowly. “Everything I want in a man.”

John swallows. He takes a breath, but no words come out.

“Right, okay, let’s do this then,” Mike says, sighing. “I suppose.”

The cameras zoom in on him.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are gathered here today to unite two people in a holy union,” he says. “Have you decided on exactly which two people will promise each other their undying love?”

Mike looks at Sherlock. 

John sighs. Even Mike Stamford knows it’s Sherlock.

“Before you decide,” Sherlock suddenly says. “I’d like to play the violin.”

John looks at him, mouth agape. As if he’s not already winning, anyway. Now he’s going to show off?

Sounds like him, yeah.

Sherlock walks up to Mycroft and grabs his violin case from under his chair. Mycroft shoots him a meaningful look. Next to him, Harry leans over and whispers something in his ear. What on earth are those two bonding over? Mycroft shakes his head. John sure hopes she didn’t bring her weed stash.

Sherlock places his instrument under his chin and closes his eyes. 

Great, now Harry’s showing Mycroft something on her phone.

It better not be baby pictures.

But then, Sherlock starts playing, and it takes John completely by surprise. Stirring those strings is a familiar melody, softly seeping into his ears finding its way down to his heart strings. He knows he’s heard it before, long ago. 

A few christmases earlier. 

The mist clears. It’s Sherlock’s own composition. When he thought Irene Adler was dead, he’d composed it, during long winter nights, the light in his eyes never more dim.

John frowns. Why would he play Irene’s tune? As a final middle finger to her? After defeating her? It seems petty.

_ He’s writing sad music _ , he’d told Irene in Battersea Power Station. 

Like Pandora’s box, Sherlock unleashes all the emotions from his violin into the entire room, the crowd hanging on his every note.

_ I’d say he was heartbroken, but he’s Sherlock. He does all that anyway. _

The echo of the past. And like Pandora’s box, it holds on to a hint of hope. 

Until suddenly, it all clicks.

“You love me,” John blurts.

Abruptly, Sherlock stops playing, bow hanging in the air, quivering.

“John -” he says, unsure.

“You love me,” John says, and the deductions all come at once now. “That song was never about Irene. It was about  _ me _ . And look at this whole bloody room. Down to the very detail - Sherlock, you are a drama queen. You reveal the truth in the most dramatic way you can think of. You don’t ask for a hug, you ask for the bloody Heimlich. These glasses are our glasses, from 221B. The pink suitcases holding the bread, the salt and pepper shakers shaped like pill bottles? Callbacks to our first case. The ashtrays are replicas from the Buckingham Palace one you stole. The napkins? Little fucking  _ hounds _ . And there are even Lucky Cats…”

John shakes his head. “Sherlock, you are a ridiculous man. And the flowers...”

John catches his breath. He feels suddenly dizzy. White roses. Baby’s breath. Just like when Sherlock came home from his exile. All dressed up. Surrounded by these very flowers.

“These flowers say,  _ I love you _ .”

Sherlock lowers his violin, fingers shaking.

“But you can’t say it first, can you?” John continues. “You just can’t bring yourself to do it. That’s why you show it.”

John glances at Jonathan. The poor man looks pale as a sheet.

“I’m sorry to do this to you, Jonathan,” he says, and turns to Sherlock. 

“Sherlock, you should know… If you haven’t already deduced. I mean, you’re brilliant, aren’t you? But you have to know. I love you too.”

Sherlock completely freezes. The whole world seems to be frozen. You could hear a pin drop.

That is, until the doors fly open and the roaring sounds of a motor fill the venue. All eyes turn. A motorcyclist, dressed in all black, drives slowly through the aisle until he stops right in front of them. For a moment, John is afraid there is another assassin left, and instinctively, he steps in front of Sherlock. But then, the motorist takes off his helmet, revealing the disheveled, grey haired head of a man looking frankly miserable.

“Crap. Am I too late to stop the wedding?”

“Doctor Homes…” Jonathan stammers. But then, he shoots a quick look at Sherlock and John. “Gregory. He’s someone I work with at the hospital. He’s absolutely fantastic. A brilliant diagnostic.”

“I failed to make my most important diagnosis, though,” the man says. “Sorry it took me so long. Did I miss my chance?”

Jonathan throws his head back, laughs loudly, and then steps forward. 

“You didn’t miss, Doctor. That was surgery.”

And he grabs the man’s head in both his hands, leaning in for a hard, urgent kiss.

When Jonathan pulls back, he looks at John and Sherlock, absolutely exhausted.

“I quit this show,” he says.

Then, he takes Doctor Homes’ helmet and puts it on his head, joins him on the motorcycle and back down the aisle, they drive off.

Janine looks looks like she’s about to murder someone.

“This is awkward,” Mary says.

“Keep rolling,” Janine shouts. “All cameras on John and Sherlock, please!”

John turns back to him. Right. He has just confessed his undying love like an idiot. What if he was wrong about this? What if Sherlock doesn’t feel the same - maybe he just really likes white roses. Maybe he’s heartbroken about watching Jonathan disappear.

Sherlock, for his part, has an angry look on his face.

“You told me it all meant nothing!” Sherlock says.

“What?”

“In Chessington park. You told me the… the massage meant nothing. That we’re just friends.”

Oh bloody hell. “That was just to guide you on your date!”

Sherlock shakes his head. “But you’re not gay. You said it over and over again.”

“I’m bisexual, you bloody idiot.” John glances at Harry, who’s smiling annoyingly hard.

“You’re…,” Sherlock says.

“Yes.”

“You…”

“I do.”

“You love me?”

John’s eyes prickle. The man put together this ridiculously romantic wedding, yet he didn’t even expect to be loved  _ back _ . John puts his hand on Sherlock’s cheek and gently stills his shaking. Sherlock allows his head to be softly guided downwards, and John presses his lips to his.

And it’s not like before. It’s not like on the balcony, the deep rumble of a volcano not sure if it wants to burst. It’s not like in the penthouse, when Sherlock drugged him, the fireworks of a heart exploding with all the hope it contained. 

It’s the steady warmth of two people made of hot clay, pressing into each other and melting into each other’s shape. It feels right.

A trace of salt reaches John’s lips, and he’s not sure if Sherlock is crying, or he is. But he deepens the kiss, and pours as much love into it as he can. He is practically bursting with it.

Panting, they part. 

In front of them, Mike Stamford is broadly smiling. He throws off his long black gown. Beneath it, written across his t-shirt in large lettering, it reads:  _ #johnlock _

John rolls his eyes, smiling. Then, he turns back to Sherlock. 

“Let’s get married,” he says.

Sherlock startles. “This hardly seems the time and place.”

“Sherlock, we are literally at a wedding venue.”

John licks his lips. The room is pregnant with expectation. 

“Yesssssss,” Harry hisses in the background.

“Do hold out on your celebrations until my brother has rebooted,” Mycroft tells her.

Sherlock bites his lower lip.

“I guess all our friends and family are here, anyway,” Sherlock says. “So it’s… practical.”

“Shut up, you git,” John says, briefly kissing him again. 

“Alright, let’s get on with it, shall we?” Mike says. “We are gathered here today, to witness the marriage of two wonderful people, who were introduced to each other by me. It took them a while to realise they were madly in love with each other. Once you become a hashtag, you’ve royally screwed up your love life, eh. Shit. Am I allowed to say screw?”

Janine rolls her eyes. 

“Let’s cut right to the vows,” Mike says. “Sherlock, you hopeless romantic sod, have you got something prepared?”

Sherlock glares at him. But then he sighs and reaches in his breast pocket. He unearths a crumpled paper, and folds it open.

“Spare vows,” he says. “Just in case.”

John smiles.

With shaking fingers, Sherlock starts reading his paper.

“If we talk about love, we should talk about the hippocampus, the hypothalamus, and the anterior cingulated cortex. John Watson, there is no denying, you do activate my amygdala and frontal cortex so well. You are the natural high I seek. You make my oxytocin and vasopressin levels rise. As I have pointed out before, love is a chemical defect found on the losing side.”

The whole room is awkwardly silent. He turns the paper.

“But if this is losing, I don’t want to win. I want to be lost with you forever. I want to crawl in bed with you and never climb out. Life is worth nothing without you. Trust me, I’ve tried. John Watson, you’ve endured war, and injury, and loss, and I am so sorry for all the hurt that I caused you. You are the most kind, amazing, caring, generous, gorgeous man I know, and if you should grant me even a small fraction of your heart, I’m yours. Forever.”

A couple of tables further, Mrs Hudson sniffles. John can relate. He swallows, and looks down at his hands.

He didn’t even write vows. This cannot be topped.

“John, it’s your turn now, mate,” Mike Stamford unhelpfully supplies.

“Sherlock…. Sherlock.”

John shifts on his feet. Sherlock looks at him uncertainly.

John glances at Harry. She gives him a thumbs up.

“When I first met you, you read everything about me just from my phone,” John says, remembering his deduction about Harry and Clara. “I was in awe. I thought you were brilliant. And every new adventure we went on, you amazed me even more. You can recognise an airline pilot from his thumb, you say. You can solve a case with a bag of dirt and a phone call. But there is something you missed completely. Something  _ I _ missed completely. From the first moment we met, I have been utterly and completely in love with you. And it makes me wonder why you’d miss such an obvious deduction.”

John steps closer and takes Sherlock’s shaking hands. He’s staring at the floor.

“Sherlock Holmes, you madman. You do not know how lovely you are.”

Sherlock looks up.

“You’ve given up so much, for your friends, for me. You’ve endured torture, you’ve endured loneliness. Never again will you have to be lonely. I hope to always be able to give you the love you deserve, and I will try to show you that love, every minute of every day, from now on.”

John kisses Sherlock’s hands. Sherlock stands blinking, speechless. 

Mike clears his throat. “By all the power invested in me — and trust me, they’ve made me entirely too powerful — I now declare you husband and husband.” 

The crowd applauds.

“Cut!” Janine yells. “Mike, love, you forgot the bloody rings.”

 

***   
  
The opening dance, by Sherlock’s request, is ‘Strangers in the Night’ by Frank Sinatra. 

_ Strangers in the night, two lonely people _ _   
_

They swirl on the dancefloor and John lets Sherlock softly melt into him.

_ We were strangers in the night _ _   
_

John brings his hand to Sherlock’s warm neck.

_ Up to the moment when we said our first hello _

It feels like an epic conclusion, it feels like a new beginning. In the brief space between past and future, a lover’s touch. 

Their first dance flows effortlessly. As if they have been dancing around each other for over a hundred years.

When the song ends, Sherlock’s gaze seems to have wandered a million miles away.

“Everything okay?” John asks.

“Yes,” he says, as ‘Turning Page’ by Sleeping at Last starts playing - John’s choice of music, now. “It’s just such a relief.”

“What is?”

“That when I die, it will be  _ our _ life flashing before my eyes.”

John buries his face in Sherlock’s shoulder, unexpectedly moved. They hold each other closely, while other couples join the dancefloor. Sherlock’s parents smile at them. Molly and her boyfriend seem utterly in love. Lestrade clings awkwardly to his date. He gives them a thumbs up, smiling much too gleefully.

“So…” John says. “We took over Jonathan’s show quite a bit. Speaking of which… You didn’t feel anything for Jonathan?”

He tries not to squeeze Sherlock’s hand as they make a turn on the dancefloor.

Sherlock pulls back a bit, confused look on his face. “John, I married you.”

“After your other potential husband ran off, yes,” John says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Jonathan was… great. But he doesn’t compare to John Watson. Not even close.”

John smiles, then frowns. “You did kiss him…”

“Yes…”

They take another turn.

“Was that all… that happened?”

Sherlock stops in his tracks. “John!”

“First lover’s quarrel already?” Mycroft’s voice suddenly booms next to them. “Marriage changes people, you know.”

John turns to him, glaring.

“What do you want, Mycroft?”

“I wish to offer my congratulations to the happy couple.”

“Oh.” John glances at Sherlock. “Thank you.”

“It took you long enough to realise,” Mycroft says, to neither of them in particular. 

John stares at his feet. It’s true. He could have been holding Sherlock for much longer already.

“Unfortunately, I have to run,” Mycroft says. “Huge… International crisis. Am very busy and important. I can’t be photographed by my enemies,  _ dancing _ .”

They shake hands. 

“You’re not leaving, brother mine?” Harry asks, suddenly hanging off John’s shoulder. 

“I’m  _ not _ your brother,” Mycroft says, but he’s smiling as he turns and walks away.

“He’s a riot,” Harry whispers in John’s ear. “Now let’s go ask this deejay to cheer the place up a bit, yeah?”

She disappears to the deejay, a stunning, androgynous looking woman. Soon, they’re picking out records together, talking and smiling.

“My boys!” Mrs Hudson comes over and hugs them tight against her chest. “Mrs Turner’s going to be so jealous when I tell her. My friends, on the telly! But Sherlock! Turning down a celebrity!”

She squeezes his arm. “I’m so proud of you.”

Sherlock smiles. 

“So you finally figured it out,” Mrs Hudson says. “Your deductions are usually much quicker.”

Sherlock looks affronted. “How could I deduce it earlier? Have you seen the way he dresses?”

She spots the open bar in the distance. “I must be off, boys. You continue dancing.”

Sherlock scoops John in his arms. “Indeed, it took me years to deduce, John,” he mumbles into his hair. “I thought you didn’t want me that way.”

“To be fair,  _ I _ didn’t know I wanted you that way,” John says.

“But then this case came along. And you started telling me how you seduce people. Telling them they are lovely and brilliant. Listening. Little touches. And I was thinking, that’s exactly how you’ve been treating  _ me _ .”

John swallows against Sherlock’s waistcoat.

“But I didn’t dare hope,” Sherlock continues. “Not really. Until you kissed me. I was so happy, so happy John. So… confused. I thought I’d been happy solving cases, concerning myself with just the work. Then you proved me wrong. By showing me what else I could have… However, you kept sending mixed messages. You kept drawing me in and turning me down. It hurt. And Jonathan was so nice to me.”

John’s heart tugs.

“But no, John. If you must know, my jealous…  _ husband _ . I never did anything more with Jonathan than kiss him.”

John pulls back, and looks up, frowning.

“But who’s the best kisser?” 

Sherlock throws his head back and laughs. But before he can reply, Janine comes over, carrying drinks.

“How are you doing?” she asks.

“Sorry we ruined your television show,” Sherlock says.

“Are you kidding me? You’re going to make me rich,” Janine replies. 

“We are?”

“This love story will be television history,” she says. “We might even change the name of the show from  _ Wilson Needs a Heart _ to  _ Sherlock Holmes, Undercover Lover _ .”

John snorts.

“I’ve even got a tagline already,” she says. “ _ Sherlock’s back and he’s in love! But who with? And what has he done to his best friend? _ ”

“That’s absolutely ridiculous,” Sherlock says. 

But before he can dwell on it, John takes his hand and drags him away from the crowd, out to the hall. There, he presses his lips into him longingly. Suddenly, he’s completely overwhelmed by the new power he has - the power to touch Sherlock freely, publicly, lovingly. His hands roam Sherlock’s body hungrily, and he grinds his hips against Sherlock. A helpless moan escapes Sherlock’s lips, and John repeats his motion, grinding excruciatingly slowly, crotch against crotch. He pushes his tongue in Sherlock’s mouth, and locks his fingers around Sherlock’s wrists, holding him effectively in place. Soon, Sherlock is squirming, undeniably hard in his pants.

“John,” he says, panicky. “John, we don’t want a repeat -”

“We need to leave,” John says.

“Who leaves a wedding early?” Sherlock moans, but his voice grows high-pitched as John presses his erection against his groin again.

“Sherlock, I swear to god, if we don’t leave now, I’m going to fuck you into this wall. Don’t get me wrong. You’re a good girl for saving yourself for marriage, but let’s fucking end that now.”   
  


***

 

“Oh no, the hotel room only has one bed,” John grins. “What are we to do?”

Sherlock smiles, but then his face drops. “I’m nervous, John. I haven’t…”

“I know,” John says. He takes Sherlock’s hands. “We don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I want to.”

He starts removing his jacket. He doesn’t take his eyes off John for even one second, and quietly, they both undress in front of each other. 

When they stand completely naked, they pause a moment. John licks his lips. His husband is absolutely stunning. 

Sherlock traces his finger along John’s shoulder scar. Then, softly, he presses a kiss to it. 

It’s a beautiful gesture. They have both been hurt, they are both healed.

John puts his hand on Sherlock’s cheek and guides him to the bed, where they lay, facing each other. This is entirely new - sober, honest, unapologetically queer sex. Sherlock might be a technical virgin, but at least he has imagined this thousand times. John might be the most inexperienced of the two.

Sherlock puts a warm hand on John’s neck. Their eyes lock briefly, and it feels like John is watching him undress all over again. Then, Sherlock puts his mouth on John’s.

It’s breathtaking.

Sherlock pulls up his knee against John. He takes John’s hand and, just like yesterday night, guides it to his arse. John’s cock aches at the very suggestion. He’d pound into him, right here, right now, if his cock had full control.

His heart beats in his throat, on his lips. Tentatively, John takes Sherlock’s upper lip between his teeth and pulls it, then strokes his tongue across it slowly. Meanwhile, his finger presses into Sherlock, breaching him with just the tip.

Sherlock gasps, stills against his mouth. Then, he lifts his hand, and his fingers wrap tightly around John’s neck, grab his hair. 

John pushes his mouth back and reclaims Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock whimpers, then licks into John’s mouth. As John traces his tongue around Sherlock’s, he pulls his finger back, then pushes it deeper into Sherlock. 

Sherlock grinds down, slowly impaling himself on John’s finger as their kiss deepens. 

John moves his other hand to Sherlock’s, still laying between them. As if nothing matters more in the world, he hooks their fingers together. Immediately, Sherlock clamps down on it, moaning, still pumping his hips. He’s fucking himself on John’s finger, and John nearly explodes untouched.

He has to pull back. When their lips part, Sherlock looks betrayed. 

Then, Sherlock rolls on his belly, pushes his knees into the mattress and slightly raises his arse.

It’s all the encouragement he needs. John positions himself behind Sherlock. The sight is straight from the book of gods. Sherlock’s marble skin shines in the moonlight as he bends for John, shakily.

John’s heart stops in his throat. Between those gorgeous legs, John can see it clearly: Sherlock shaved his balls.

John’s penis twitches with longing.

He wets a second finger and traces it up and down Sherlock’s perineum.

“John,” Sherlock wails desperately.

John pushes the finger into Sherlock, who moans into the pillow. John can see Sherlock’s arms shaking.

“Christ,” John murmurs. 

With his other hand, John rubs the tip of his cock between Sherlock’s legs, grazing his balls, moving upwards. Sherlock pushes back into him a little, panting. John’s cock twitches. It wants. It  _ needs _ .

John slowly turns his fingers inside Sherlock, and crooks them, seeking his prostate.

“Mmmhmmm,” Sherlock groans. 

John moves his fingers in and out, relishing the tightness of it all. Each time John grazes past the prostate, Sherlock buries his head in the mattress, and covers his eyes with his hands, wailing in near desperation.

The sight leaves John dripping against Sherlock’s leg as he uses his other hand to wrap around Sherlock’s long, thin cock. When John strokes along its length, Sherlock bites into his own hand to keep from screaming. 

John pumps in and out of Sherlock with his fingers, firmer, increasing his speed, exactly the way he would like to fuck him. 

“John-”, Sherlock says, pushing back into John’s fingers.

John can’t believe he is touching such a gorgeous, magnificent man. 

“John, please, I -”, Sherlock begs.

John pushes his hips forward, so his cock is positioned between Sherlock’s legs. It grazes Sherlock’s balls, trembling with want.

In that moment, Sherlock gasps loudly. His back shivers and John knows it’s coming. Sherlock’s legs start shaking, and he spasms around John’s fingers, groaning. After a few long seconds, warm, ropey come spurts from Sherlock’s cock.

“Yes, just let go, we’ve got all night,” John says. “We’ve got the rest of our lives.”

Beneath him, Sherlock alternates between frozen and heavily shaking, the shocks of an overwhelming orgasm. John keeps stroking him steadily through it, as Sherlock moans and covers his head and writhes around his fingers like an animal, not quite trying to escape. 

When Sherlock finally sags into the mattress, John carefully removes his fingers. His other hand is covered in Sherlock’s come. He looks at Sherlock’s curvy arse, his exhausted legs, his stretched hole, his shaved balls resting between his slightly spread legs; and his cock aches.

Sherlock opens his eyes and glances at John’s penis behind him. There’s a hint of fear. But then, he opens his legs a bit further and puts his hands on either side of his arse, spreading his cheeks in invitation.

John can’t - he can’t control himself. He bows down over Sherlock and places his cock against Sherlock’s hole. Sherlock nods.

“Please, John.”

“Fuck,” John says, and pushes forward. 

As he enters him, stretching tight sensitive skin with just the very tip of his cock, the sensation is completely overwhelming. “You are amazing,” John mumbles.

He pulls back, then enters him a little further, stretches him more. “You are fantastic,” he whispers. Sherlock whimpers, eyes closed.

Another thrust. It’s so, so tight. So, so warm. “You are brilliant.”

He pulls back and thrusts deeper. “You are stunning,” John grunts.

“Yes,” Sherlock grumbles. “But am I a dirty slut?”

John stills, for a moment, shocked. Then, he smiles. “Yes you are,” he says. “Tell me how badly you want me to fuck you.”

As he thrusts slowly, but deep, Sherlock moans.

“H - hard,” Sherlock says. “Use me like your little fuck toy.”

“Nnnnnngh,” John says, thrusting a little harder, unable to trust himself not to come from the thought alone.

Sherlock covers his eyes with his hands, straining. “Fuck me, John. I’ve waited so long. I need you to -  _ hmpf _ \- come inside me.”

“Fuck,” John murmurs, overcome with desire.

He finally lets go, fucking Sherlock with determination. The only sounds in the room are John and Sherlock’s grunts and the slick, rythmic sounds of merciless pounding. The noise alone drives John mad with desire. He locks his fingers in Sherlock’s curls, desperate to see every emotion on Sherlock’s half-turned face while he fucks him into the mattress. He presses his lips down on Sherlock’s neck, alternating his pacing with quick short pushes and then, again, deep hard ones. Sherlock’s body shakes from the force, his eyes are closed.

When John feels his orgasm building, he pushes into Sherlock as deep as he can, one last time. His balls contract, and as the waves of ecstasy take him, he grips Sherlock’s fingers. Feeling right there, his wedding ring.  

Completely spent, he extracts himself carefully, kisses Sherlock’s scars, and gets up to grab a towel. Carefully, he wipes Sherlock and himself, until they are clean, then he throws the towel in the corner and lies down next to Sherlock.

Sherlock hasn’t moved. He’s still lying on his belly, face turned away.

John turns on his side, wraps an arm and leg over Sherlock and cuddles him. Is he sleeping?

John grabs Sherlock’s fingers and one by one, starts putting them in his mouth. How could he take a nap when he has such an urgency to die all over again? 

“You better clear your schedule for the next two weeks,” John says, releasing Sherlock’s thumb from his mouth. “I need my detective, because I plan on committing murder over and over again.”

He kisses Sherlock’s lean fingers. 

“Stabbing you…” he says, “Over and over.”

But suddenly Sherlock pulls back. He sits on the edge of the bed, his back to him.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?” John asks.

It takes a while for him to answer.

“It’s just a bit… hard to wrap my mind around, yet.”

John crawls over to him, and wraps his arms around Sherlock from behind. Sherlock doesn’t move.

“John,” Sherlock asks, head turned away. “Do you really forgive me?”

John frowns. What on earth is Sherlock talking about? Didn’t they just exchange vows and kiss each other to death? Didn’t they just have the most magnificent sex of his life? What could Sherlock possibly have done wrong in such a short time?

“What for?” John asks.

“For… leaving you. For making you mourn, for two years. Do you… forgive me. For all the hurt that I caused you?”

John’s heart tugs in his chest. He pulls back from the embrace.

“You think this sex was about forgiveness?”

Sherlock slightly drops his chin. John can see his adam’s apple bobbing, and he puts his fingers on Sherlock’s jaw.

“Look at me, Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock just drops his head. John gets out of bed, and kneels in front of Sherlock.

“Of course, I forgive you,” John says, desperately seeking eye contact. “Sherlock. This sex was not about me having to forgive you, I hope you know that. I already did. In fact, I was hoping  _ you’d _ forgive  _ me _ .”

Sherlock looks up, eyes glassy.

“That I’d… forgive you?”

“Yes,” John says. He swallows. “Since you came back, I’ve been acting horribly. I didn’t see…” He traces his finger along Sherlock’s biggest scar, curling around his neck. “I didn’t observe.”

John looks down, in shame. “You did an incredible thing, and you were so alone, and I owe you so much.”

Sherlock bites his bottom lip.

“So please. Forgive me?” John asks.

Sherlock places his hand on John’s cheek, smiles through his tears and pulls him back on the bed.

“How about some make-up sex?” Sherlock asks.

“Excellent idea, my brilliant husband,” John says, tracing his fingers across Sherlock’s collar bone. “I’d love to look into your eyes when I come inside you.”

“Oh? Is that what husbands do?” Sherlock smiles mischievously. “Fill you up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doctor House saves the day.
> 
> What can I say? This fic started with a crazy idea and now it's over 50.000 words and I feel incredibly proud, and sad that it’s ending, and by the way, have I mentioned that 88thparallel is the best beta in the world? 
> 
> Also, I’ve had AMAZING readers who blew me away with each comment. And yes, I feel sad that it's over... There is nothing, nothing that compares to the high of writing and sharing fic. I’ve learned so much about writing, about myself, about these characters we all love. I hope this ending will be satisfying for all of you who’ve been along for this amazing ride <3


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